


definitely maybe i will live to love

by hazyshadeofwinter (seeing_blue)



Series: i know you'll be by my side [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon Divergence, Collective Family Trauma, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Reader is Number Eight, Suicide Attempt, The Hargreeves All Need a Hug, and number eight gives them hugs, family is closer because of eight, five is emotionally stunted, five is fifteen/sixteen, it swings either way, no apocalypse under eight's roof, no fridging for patch, pairings can be read as either platonic or romantic, reader is female, reader is fifteen/sixteen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 41
Words: 120,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeing_blue/pseuds/hazyshadeofwinter
Summary: Number Eight: The ShieldIn which the eighth Hargreeves keeps the family from being completely dysfunctional.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Original Female Character(s), Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Reader, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy)/Original Female Character(s), Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy)/Reader, The Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy) & Original Female Character(s), The Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy) & Reader
Series: i know you'll be by my side [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912027
Comments: 394
Kudos: 1224
Collections: Angry teen is soft for s/o





	1. it's the springtime of my life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Hazy Shade of Winter"](https://open.spotify.com/track/1tBZnhDT8xbgJTs43FiqrD?si=EyhBJGdEQG-nSHk8kpGUTg)

There is something in the deep, the dark.

You are not alone.

Your eyes open to pitch black. Iron clings to your ankles. The cold is muted. The pressure dulled.

Do you wish for your lungs to burn longer? To burn like you do, inside and out, until sunlight rises from your mouth and is extinguished by the cold sea that surrounds you? Would you float here for eternity, like an old war mine? Would fish eat out your eyes? Would the world forget about you? Your family?

Do you wish them to?

The only other presence in the empty world is you.

It is all so silent.

-

Number Eight, when tilted horizontally, becomes the infinity symbol. At times, you feel infinite, eternal. Light escapes from your hands— _it burns, burns, but your skin is unmarred, always smooth, always perfect—_ and in the glow, you swear you can see glimpses of the expanse.

Other times, an eight is just an eight, and you are nothing but yourself, a girl whose universe ends beneath her, confined, constrained, controlled.

Captured.

It is what it is.

Klaus compares you being dropped to the bottom of the ocean to him being locked away in a mausoleum. He does it with a laugh and a lilt to his voice, but his eyes are hollow. Klaus does not do well in the silence. There is more than a song he hears.

Diego asks you what it was like. You shrug and say boring, though Five gives you that sharp look meaning he’s picked out your lie. You ignore it.

Even though you’ve showered off the seawater, the scent of salt still lingers in your loose hair, and you do not want to admit to yourself that you’ll be thinking of the silence in those depths, the other who was with you. Was it the infinite? Or the captured?

Mother calls for dinner, and you pull your hair back to avoid being chastised for a disheveled appearance.

-

Vanya plays an original piece she composed on her violin. You stand and dance to the melody as best you can. It garners a stifled laugh from her, and she continues to swipe the bow across strings. Stifled is a good description for Vanya. She is muted, more so than the other Hargreeves, more so than the people on the street. It is a purposeful oppression.

A light of her own trickles from her music, however, and you’re thankful to be allowed into such a spiritual experience.

You asked Dad why Vanya looked so different, so colorless. You do not remember her always being this way. She used to _sing._

Dad dismisses the question with cold efficiency, making it clear that you are not to ask such things again.

That is why you dance to Vanya’s music. Your hands swirl above you, hips swaying. You spin in lazy circles, mimicking Klaus’ moves in a slower, more relaxed version. Head tilted back, you stare at the ceiling through hazy, half-lidded eyes, and you find yourself preferring Vanya’s music to the silence.

She plays her pieces over again upon your request.

-

Luther hits you, over and over again, trying to break you, always trying to break you. He has it in his mind that once he does, he’ll receive praise from Dad, whose curt, “Begin!” sends the two of you into a frenzy. Luther may have strength and weight over you, but you cannot be cut, be broken, be bruised. His punches and kicks carry a familiarity to them. They do not hurt you. He knows this, which only feeds the competitive flame in his eyes.

You should not be pitted against each other.

It does not stop you from slamming your fist into his jaw and sending him backward with bones seemingly made of steel.

Light faintly dances off your skin like your ribboning golden auroras. Ben calls it pretty; Diego calls you a nightlight. Klaus has come into your bedroom at night countless from a nightmare, asking for you turn on your nightlight to help him sleep, though, so you don’t think it’s the worst description.

Afterward, when Dad calls an end to the training session, you help Luther up and bring an ice pack from the freezer to press to the bruise forming on his jaw where you hit him. He smiles at you. It has no ire. Mom sneaks hard, sugary biscuits to the both of you for, as she puts it, a “job well done.”

-

Five always complains about the music playing on your record player whenever he enters your room, but it doesn’t stop him from seating himself on the bed and telling you all the ways you’re wrong about this theory or that perspective. You keep him from getting really into it by a murmured, “Okay, Dad.” However, it then steers him into an argument he primarily fuels himself about all the ways he is _not_ Dad.

You make him an origami swan to make up for it, and he begrudgingly accepts the crafted apology. You pretend not to notice the way his face softens when he examines your work in the lamplight.

“Read me some Greek literature like the pretentious scholar you are,” you say as you move to change out the record for something to go more suitably with Five’s voice and the yellow-paged book in his lap. Once the needle sets on sleek black, low piano begins to play, and you make yourself comfortable on the bed. Five, who’s seated near the foot, obliges, even though he grumbles about only doing it because you asked nicely.

It’s a routine; you ask nicely every night, and he reads every night.

He props his arm on a bent knee, book tilted toward the lamp on your nightstand. You pull a throw blanket over you and take up the usual position with your head on the pillow, a hand tucked under it, the blanket covering your top but leaving your legs exposed to keep you from getting hot. Your bare feet press against Five’s thighs. He’s long gotten over being annoyed about your toes constantly curling, though it used to drive him to the point of feral rage.

You’d just laugh at his state, though, and say you were sorry. He’d take the apology and keep reading. In your mind, you know Five wouldn’t let any of the others laugh at him like you do over his outbursts. And, a couple minutes later, your toes would start flexing again.

One of his hands absently finds its way to your ankle, and he draws circles around the malleolus with a thumb. Occasionally, he comments on characters and plots and symbolism. Five likes to make sure you’re aware of his intelligence. You think he is afraid of who he might be without it.

It’s okay, you want to say. You’ll still like him.

The cadence of Five’s voice lulls you like it always does. You will never hear something this nice in the silence.

-

“Mom?”

“Yes, Eightie?”

“Do you love me?”

“Of course I do. You’re my little peach.”

She smiles gently at you, and though she’s all wires and circuitry, you can hear the song in her mechanical pulses.

“I love you, too.”

Your arms wrap around her aproned waist. She presses a kiss to your head. It’s cooler than a kiss should be, but it’s Mom, so it’s warm in its own way.

“Can I help you make dinner?”

“That would be lovely. Put on an apron, and we’ll get started.”

Since Mom is the only one ever in the kitchen, you use one of her aprons neatly hung up in an assortment straight out of a picture from one of those home and garden magazines Allison occasionally bought. _I like dreaming of the future,_ your sister would say to you, and you’d grab Vanya so the three of you could come up with perfected townhouses or cottages to live in away from Dad, away from the Academy, where life could be normal and less painful. 

You showed Five the interior of a mid-century modern in a dog-eared magazine and said you wanted to live in a place like this.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because of the high windows,” you replied, pointing to an example in the photograph. “Lets a lot of natural light in.”

“Like the greenhouse,” he smirked.

“Like the greenhouse, yeah.”

Mom ties the apron string on your back into a bow, and you feel just to assure yourself that it looked exactly like hers: perfect. There are reasons why you can never be as exact as Mom, as flawless, but you enjoy the small moments of coming close.

When you eat dinner, you closely watch everyone’s reactions to the asparagus on their plates. They don’t praise the flavor, but neither do they show outward signs of disgust—not even Dad—so you take it as a small victory.


	2. you can't dance and stay uptight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Dancing in the Moonlight"](https://open.spotify.com/track/1OzY7RRZh3EcIKn7VKZUTx?si=X30Lh9FkRAeSabBbY6HGVw)

Training leaves you burning up and exhausted. Dad wants to see how much it will take for your capillaries to burst, for your bones to snap. “One cannot push the limits of one’s capacity if one’s limits are unknown,” he said. You’ve heard it time and time again.

If Dad could drop the moon on you from purely an experimental standpoint, he would.

Still, he cannot break you physically like he has all the others, and it gives you cause to smirk to yourself in the shower, your hair wet and draped across your back and chest like it was when he sunk you to the floor of the sea.

Next time, whenever that will be, it will be deeper.

You’ll be ready for the silence.

An exorbitant amount of steam billows out from the bathroom once you open the door, and Klaus makes a comment about you smoking weed in a place with better ventilation in the future.

-

“Well w-w-we wouldn’t have to do this again and again if you w-would get it right?”

 _“Me?_ You’re the one who can’t follow directions, idiot!”

Five and Diego, nearly at each other’s throats, both snap intense glares at you when they feel your hands on their shoulders. “I think you two need to calm down—”

“Shut up, Eight!” they both yell, then Diego lunges for Five, who bares a feral grin like he’s excited get beat up—or do the beating up.

They also both simultaneously let out surprised, furious shouts when you yank their heads into a half-headlock. Their bodies bend forward, and as Diego goes to bite your arm (even though he’s completely aware it’s not going to do anything—but it’s all about the _emotion_ behind the bite), Five blips out from under you. You predict where he’s going to wind up, however, and the moment he reappears, your foot slams into his chest and sends him stumbling onto the ground. You’ve always been better than most when it comes to predicting Five’s jumps.

“You’re not getting anywhere because Diego, you’re trying to take charge when you need to cooperate, and Five, you’re belittling him instead of treating him like a teammate, and it makes you susceptible.”

You let go of Diego, who shoves himself away from you for extra effect. Five gets up and brushes off the footprint on his tracksuit. You step back to give them several feet and, despite the nasty looks they give you, smile. “Just try it again. You’ll get it.”

-

Allison won’t stop crying.

“It’s okay, it really is,” you comfort. “It doesn’t look bad! Right, Vanya?”

“Right,” she nods, though she holds her long brown hair almost protectively.

“It looks _terrible!”_ Allison shouts back. “I did a horrible job!”

“What’s going on?” Diego asks, coming to lean against the doorframe of Allison’s bedroom. Ben and Klaus peek over his shoulder. He doesn’t make Allison’s state any better by snorting a laugh when he sees your hair. Allison’s tears strengthen.

“Oh, come on, now, it’s very avant-garde,” Klaus puts in with a flourish of his hand while he gives Diego a shove. “Very…European.”

Luther, hearing Allison’s loud sobs, comes stomping up the stairs. He barrels into the boys, which sends all of them tripping into the bedroom.

“I messed up,” she tells Luther. He procures a handkerchief he had in one of his pockets and gives it to her. “Now Dad is going to _kill_ me.”

“He’s not going to kill you,” says Luther. “I won’t let him. I promise.”

“But it’s my fault!”

“It was your first time trying!” you defend. Five, drawn by the sudden clamor in Allison’s room, is the last one to saunter in, and he hides his surprise at your new look well. You notice his eyes widen a fraction, then narrow afterward.

He gets his shit-eating smirk, though, and drawls, “Looks like you can’t rumor yourself out of this one, huh? There’s no way anyone’s gonna believe you did a good job.”

“Shut _up,_ Five,” Luther growls.

You give Five a disappointed look, which causes him to sulk. Five leans against the wall beside Diego and cross his arms. “Ouch,” Klaus grimaces when he sees your expression. “Can you _ever_ come back from that, Five—”

“—Don’t you have some weed to smoke, druggie?” Five sneers.

“Whaaat? Me? I’ve never heard of drugs in my life.” At the same time, Klaus takes out a rolled blunt. He moves to the window and starts lighting it up.

“I _seriously_ cannot believe you, Klaus!” Allison yells. “Not in my room!”

“Um, excuse me, aren’t you all supposed be distracted by…that?” He gestures to you. “Dad won’t kill you, but he definitely will take a piece of your soul and—” Klaus pretends to hold an apple, or a heart, and chomps down on air. “Gone, forever, like one of Luther’s room-clearing farts in the wind.”

Diego laughs, Klaus and Luther start to argue, Allison repeats how much trouble she’s in, Ben pulls out a book to read, and Five remarks that he doesn’t have time for this pointless shit, so Vanya is the only one to see you pick up the scissors Allison cut your hair with in the first place.

“Wait, don’t—” But her soft voice is lost to the volume of others. You swivel to the vanity mirror, pull a clump of what you assume to be bangs, and _snip!_

“There!” you holler over everyone else. “Now _I’m_ the one who did a bad job cutting my hair, not Allison.”

The room goes silent for a moment before Allison lets out a soft, wavering breath. You grin. Your new bangs are terribly crooked, but you think it matches the choppy, rebellious look your short, chin-length hair gives off.

Then Allison giggles through her tears. Klaus laughs approvingly. “Well, Dad is _definitely_ going to be having too much of a shit-fit over that to notice the rest.”

Luther shakes his head at you, but he can’t hide his smile.

“Unbelievable,” Diego smirks. “You’re so stupid.”

“Vanya,” you say, waving the scissors, “wanna match bangs?”

She fearfully shakes her head, but you toss them on the vanity and come over to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Your hair is perfect, anyway,” you whisper to her, then you give Allison a similar peck. “And don’t listen to what the boys say. Like they know anything about hair.”

It’s good to see her happy again, to see her grin through drying tears. Father, of course, thoroughly reprimands you for your unsanctioned hairstyle when he checks you at dinnertime. He then proceeds to talk at length about the consequences of recklessness and how impulsivity is ultimately a poor reflection of your ability to think, lead, and act. You take it unflinchingly, and once Dad is done, dinner proceeds as normal.

That night, Five ruffles your short hair with a smirk. “It’s not so bad, I guess,” he says. “But it’s kind of misleading; there’s no way in hell you’re actually this cool.”

“Is that what I look like? Cool?”

“I take it back. You look like a stage urchin in a bad production of _Newsies.”_

“There’s no need to be that specific.”

“No, no, there is.” Five’s smirk widens into a grin. He sticks both hands in the pockets of his culottes. “What else? Oh, you look like one of those shitty band members Klaus has posters of in his room. All you need is some too-tight leather and a nose piercing. Then you can sing about your terrible life.”

“Do you think I’d look good with a nose piercing?” You hold a finger to your left nostril for good measure.

“Definitely not. And besides, how’re you even going to get a piercing through that elephant hide of yours?”

“Fair point.” You sit on the edge of your bed, and at the mention of your skin, you absently feel the metal band Dad had welded around your wrist when the tattoo’s needle wouldn’t sink in. On the inner part of the band, where everyone else’s tattoos rest, is an engraved umbrella.

You’ve never gotten sick or transmitted sickness supposedly due to your abilities, which is good, because you can’t get vaccinations. If you are hurt, you can’t get a blood transfusion or saline or painkillers. How quickly will you heal? Or will nothing heal at all?

Dad has always craved answers. You’ve never been able to give them to him.

Five lounges on your bed, a book in hand, and he watches you take out the magazine with your wishful home in it. Dean Martin’s voice rings from the record player. You lie on your back, short hair scrunching up, and rememorize the large windows, the exposed wood ceilings, the curving and cornered furniture. You want it all, right down to the color of the kitchen table and the hanging lights.

“One day,” you say to Five, to yourself, to the universe, “we’ll live in a home like this.”

“Oh yeah?”

The bed creaks as Five moves to lie beside you. He props his head up with a hand to get a look at the images, though he’s been familiar with them for a while now. “You wanna live with me?”

“Sure.” You flip the page and take in the study. “You can have all your books along the wall to impress guests. You’ll have your debates with other stupid smart people with some drink in your hand, and because they won’t get to say how annoying you’re being, you can talk all you like.”

He snickers. “And what’ll you be doing?”

You shrug. “Don’t know. I doubt I’d make for a good entertainer. I’m not as charismatic as Allison. Maybe I’d learn to cook? Somebody has to. But really, I think I’d just like to…sit beside the window and look at the trees. Be still.”

“Mm. You do like to stare into space. Need good windows for that. Plenty of space to dance to your lame songs, too.”

“You’d get to dance with me, though.”

“Aw, how sweet. You wanna dance with me.”

“Why not? Dancing is fun. And we wouldn’t do any lame waltzes Dad makes us do. It’d just be dancing. Free and uncaring.”

“I will _not_ dance like an idiot if that’s what you’re implying.”

“It only feels idiotic if you care too much about your perception of yourself.”

“I forget,” Five says dryly, “you have no self-perception. The hair says it all. I wonder what it’s like to live life as unburdened as you are.”

“I’m not unburdened,” you murmur, flipping to another page. “Just because mine are different from yours doesn’t mean they’re lesser.”

“I never said—”

“No, but it’s what you would have jumped to eventually. Then you’d debate both sides before settling on yours and not mine because, hm, you’re more intelligent.”

“I am, but that’s beside the point.”

“And what is the point again? I’m lost.”

Five frustratedly sighs. He stares down at you from his propped-up position. “You know what? I’d dance with you in that house just because you’re being such a pain in the ass about it. There. Happy?”

“Yeah.”

Your smile makes his scowl more forced. You reach up and pinch Five’s face between your fingers, slightly smooshing his lips. “One of these days,” you tell him, “we’ll take what makes us happy with us, and everything else will be left behind.”

There will be no mournful silence in your future.

When Five reads aloud, you imagine you’re lying in the white-comforter king bed with the dark green backdrop wall color behind you, wearing pajamas of your own choosing, drifting off to the same yellow lamplight that filters through half-closed eyes.

-

“Don’t let Dad see. He’ll throw it away like the other ones.”

Vanya watches you tie together the thin braided bracelet with a single charm dangling at the center. “I had Mom make it,” you explain in a hushed voice. “Not the bracelet, I mean, but the…” You flick your finger against the charm.

“And she’s not going to tell Dad?” Vanya worriedly asks.

“Nah, she said she’d keep it a secret between us. Mom is good at keeping secrets.”

Vanya bites down her elated grin when you turn her wrist over to shine pale sunlight from the window you both stand beside onto the charm. It’s plain and small and circular, but in the center is an umbrella. “Don’t listen to what Dad or Luther or Diego say.” You straighten the charm so it rests directly on her wrist, and then you bring up your own metal band to compare the two. “You’re part of the Umbrella Academy. No matter what. We’re just the secret division. Classified to the point that Dad can’t even know, otherwise it’ll make him an enemy of the state.”

“Secret division,” Vanya repeats with a nod. “Got it. Sworn to secrecy until death.”

“And even after death,” you add. “Klaus can be so fucking nosy sometimes.”

You and Vanya bend your heads toward each other, keeping your giggles quiet. It’s supposed to be study time, meaning the manor must be in complete silence, and you’ll both have to return to your rooms and books and notes.

“Thank…thank you, Eightie,” whispers Vanya. She throws her arms around you, and you hug her back. Your fingers run through her thick brown hair.

She goes back to her room. You go back to yours. The silence is not so pressing, so suffocating.


	3. gonna rock it up, roll it up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Saturday Night"](https://open.spotify.com/track/78zYiMv9yNTHgmm6kaUPCm?si=VHI3fTboSd2wBUQlT0v3fQ)

Ben’s hands tremble. He stares at them like they’re still soaked in blood.

You cover them with your own, shielding his eyes from the phantom. “You saved lives today,” you mutter to him. Rain drizzles from the sky, but you’re both protected by the gazebo’s roof.

“Did…did you see how they looked at me?” he questions, gaze distant. “They don’t look at you that way.”

He hangs his head. “I don’t want this.”

“I know. But…” Your grip tightens. “Hey. Look at me. See how I’m looking at you? How I look at you is all that matters. Those people don’t love you. I do. How the people who love you look at you is more important.”

What he sees is your smile, somehow so warm despite being a child of the academy, sincere eyes, and uneven bangs that have finally started growing out.

The handkerchief you carry with you dab at Ben’s cheeks until they’re dry once more. Then the both of you share little, light laughs, and he doesn’t feel as sad.

You link your arm with his, and Ben lets you walk him from the gazebo. You hold your sturdy black umbrella aloft to protect yourselves from the rain. You always hold your umbrella for others, a shield through and through. “Come on, you’re worrying Pogo. He made some tea for us.”

-

Diego’s knife glints in the air. You casually block it with your arm. It clatters to the floor.

“Stop.”

He throws another knife. You catch it on your cheek. You’ve never been one to glare, so you give him a flat side-eye instead.

“Stop, Diego.”

“I’m gonna be the one to make you bleed,” he says. “Not Luther.”

“Are you a psychopath?” You turn a page in your book and continue scrawling in the margins. Also, there’s an error some editor didn’t catch before it got printed, so you circled it and put in a revision. “Did you think, ‘Hm, how can I make what I’m about to say sound completely batshit?’”

“You know what I mean. One of these days, I’m going to sharpen my knife _so_ well that when it hits you— _shink!”_ He slashes one of his knives in the air. “And Luther will cry, probably, and pee his pants as well.”

“Diego,” you say, leaning to the side of the armchair you’re seated on, “if you _ever_ do manage to slice me up in some shape or form, I’ll buy you a box of Griddy’s donuts myself. Dad will put a portrait of you on the mantle, too, with the plaque, ‘The Boy Who Made History’ or something arrogant like that. But until then?” You resume your original position. “Keep sharpening those knives. Oh, and buy me a donut.”

“Like hell I’m buying you a donut.”

“Alright…but one sounds really good, doesn’t it?”

He smirks. “Yeah. Wanna sneak out tonight and grab some?”

“I’ll let my network know what’s going to happen. They’ll have time to prepare for the assault.”

“Stop calling everyone your ‘network.’”

When the mansion quiets, when Pogo and Mom suspiciously make themselves scarce, you and the others crawl past the kitchen door and out into the alleyway. You all forego your academy apparel. You say it’s to not draw attention to yourselves in public, but really, it’s just to pretend normalcy. At least, that’s what Five never fails to remark.

You never fail to tell him you’re aware. Of course you’re grasping at something that can never be yours. But does it ever hurt to do it anyway?

Five never says much on the matter afterward. For all his blunt analysis, he wears sneakers, whose soles have never touched anything else than the pavement leading to Griddy’s and the diner’s linoleum floor itself.

Vanya wears a sweater you’ve loaned her, but you don’t think you’ll ask for it back. The deep red color suits her well. Her umbrella bracelet is tucked underneath the sweater sleeve. She shoots you a shy smile and orders her usual chocolate-covered donut with sprinkles.

Five slides two glazed donuts in front of you. He calls them the “most boring donuts on the planet,” but you enjoy their simplicity. The glaze sticks to your fingers, glistens underneath the poor lighting. When you swallow, the dainty choker you have around your throat bobs up and down. Your haircut clashes with your typical style, but you don’t care. No self-perception.

Luther puts quarters in the jukebox. It’s late, meaning that you have no eyes on you except for the waitress when you get up to dance. You pull Vanya off the cracked vinyl barstool to join you with Luther, Allison, and Klaus. You dance like you normally do. She dances like she normally does. You both grin through sticky lips. She pauses when Diego calls out that her feet are awkward. It almost breaks her moment of joy. You sweep her up, however, into a partnered dance. Allison and Luther are already in one and Klaus declares he’s dancing with a very sexy older female ghost.

To back you and Vanya up, Five slaps the back of Diego’s head.

“Vanya,” you say to her, and the music acts like the ocean, swallowing you and Vanya both and muting your words. You have to lean a bit because she’s so small. “When we’re old enough, run away with Five and me. We just have a few years to go. You can play your violin on the patio, in the sunlight, wherever you’d like. Come away with us.”

“And—what about the…the others?” she whispers back. You slowly spin her around.

“They can come, too. We can all leave together and live in a house with big windows. They could go wherever they’d like, after. As long as they know they’d have a home to come back to, a home without Dad or competition or numbers, that’d be good enough.”

You straighten to get a better look at Vanya. She holds quiet sureness well. “Yeah,” she replies. “Let’s do it.”

Your dancing becomes the knot of a promise, an oath, a bond, sealed by the bad linoleum floor and the large spherical lights and the slow music.

Vanya hides her grin beneath a veil of dark brown hair. You glance at Five to see his smirk. You smile back and continue dancing in a world that knows no such thing as silence.

-

“Klaus, Klaus, look at me, hey.”

You kneel in front of him. He wants to shy away, but the soft glow that ribbons on the surface of your skin keeps him from dodging into the shadows of your room. “Who’s here? Where are they?”

“C-corner,” he gasps. He covers his eyes with a shaking hand. “By door.”

You glance over your shoulder as if you expect to see something. When you don’t, you turn back to Klaus and say, “Do they always have to pick the creepiest places to stand?”

He shakily laughs, but it borders on full-blown panic. “He won’t—won’t go away. Luther found my stash and threw it out. Can you…can you steal liquor from Dad’s cabinet?”

“Um, no.” You take a breath and shift on your knees. “Okay. This is going to be…scary and I know you try to do the exact opposite of everything Dad says, but let’s try talking to this weirdo. I’ll speak to it. You just translate.”

“I can’t, I can’t—”

“Please, Klaus, please. Do it for me.”

You phrase it that way because if Klaus does it for you, you can in turn help him get some fucking peace and much-needed sleep. If he sees the meaning in your words, he doesn’t say anything.

Sweat droplets on his forehead catch the light emanating from you. “Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll do it, but only because you’re tolerable.”

“The most tolerable?”

“The most tolerable.”

Klaus sucks in a lungful of air. He doesn’t let go of your hands. “Make it quick.”

You stare at the empty corner. “Why are you here? What do you need?”

Immediately, Klaus starts fervently shaking his head, but he grits out between clenched teeth, “Something about, about a ring being…sold.”

“What does it look like? Was it sold unwillingly? Do you need it back?”

“Gold, small green emerald, yes, yes.”

“Where was it sold?”

“Fifth—oh. Fifth Avenue. I know that place. It’s a pawn shop.” Though Klaus’ eyes have constantly stayed on you, they now refocus. “I sold some of Luther’s shit records for money there.”

“They weren’t _shit records,”_ you deadpan. “They were vintage and worth a lot, and he about smashed your skull into the wall over it.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me, I’m having a difficult enough time already, _okay?”_

“What do you want us to do with the ring once we’ve gotten it back?”

Klaus listens, and this time, he doesn’t automatically translate. “I know what to do.”

The approving, kind smile you give him fills Klaus with pride.

-

A family heirloom, Klaus said the ghost said, needs to be returned to his daughter. It’s how you find yourselves quickly evacuating the pawn shop while trying to appear normal and _not_ like you’ve stolen a ring worth eight hundred dollars.

The tactic had been simple. You distracted the owner while Klaus, the one with the slippery fingers, plucked the ring out from the box before it could be put away. “Where to next?” you ask Klaus and the ghost you cannot see.

“A trip across town, then we’ll be done.”

With just enough loose change to pay for a bus fare, you and Klaus spend thirty minutes sitting together on a seat that smells of eau de butt. The ghost is polite enough to sit behind him, out of sight. You rest your head on Klaus’ shoulder and listen to him regale stories of late-night adventures in several places the bus passes, like you’re on some tour. When his stomach grumbles, you pull out two parchment-wrapped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches you made before sneaking out.

“We are _so_ dead when we get back,” Klaus snickers through a mouthful of sandwich.

“Not entirely dead,” you reply.

The small house has a mail slot in the door. You take out a notebook from your backpack and hastily scribble a note. Klaus folds it around the ring. He flicks both into the mail slot and abruptly stands. “Okay, see?” he exasperatedly says to the space behind you. “I did it. Are you happy?”

Something strange crosses over Klaus’ face, something that makes him look older, sadder.

“He’s…gone.”

For a moment, Klaus understands the silence, too.

You take his hand, and the two of you go home.

Klaus doesn’t tell you how the ghost also said your light sung a beautiful song.

-

Five makes his unhappiness apparent once you get done scrubbing every square inch of the floor (Dad’s command, not yours). He sits on your bed with a book in his lap, arms crossed.

You mirror his cold scowl teasingly.

“It seems Klaus’ stupidity finally rubbed off on you. I wonder if I can present a research proposal to Dad about it actually being a slow, contagious virus.”

“I’m sure he’d give you funding for it, make you put in all the work, then violently reject your findings.”

His smirk comes begrudgingly. “Well, you look like shit.”

“Mm, your poetry is coming along nicely.”

“Thanks, it’s my final draft.”

You flop on the bed, legs draping over Five’s lap. He picks his book up at the last second like you might ruin it. “You can recite your original work to me later. I want to hear more about Bee-walf and fighting a hot dragon mom.”

 _“Beowulf,”_ Five hisses in correction. “You’re so damn insufferable.”

“Says the teenager reading Bullseye.”

“It’s _Beowulf!”_

“I don’t fucking care what it’s called!” Diego shouts from the other side of the wall. “Just let me sleep, you shitheads!”

Your smirk counters Five’s scowl. Your head lies on the pillow. The world tilts horizontally. It’s perfect.


	4. feel the vibe, feel the terror, feel the pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Mad About You"](https://open.spotify.com/track/5drK2kTE2mrUdV33iHWyrx?si=LZPWPYf5S86NNIyBZDzfSA)
> 
> tw: excessive blood and gore

Diego hears a cry and a crash from the bathroom.

He jolts from his bed, immediately awake. All the missions throughout the years have severed any notions of lingering exhaustion. It’s Vanya or Allison, most likely, who made the noise.

A crack of light from the ajar bathroom door beckons Diego in the dark, like the sliver of a portal, a tear in reality. He then hears soft crying, and it immediately sends his slow steps into a burst. The door slams open with his hand splayed against it. His eyes take in the towels, the blood, the fallen shower curtain—

_You._

This, this isn’t you. You can’t be crying, be hurting, be crumpled on all fours on the tiled floor in a mess of warm red. You’re you. This is a bad dream, a nightmare, not real.

“Get Mom,” you choke out through tears. “Diego, _get Mom.”_

He tries to say your name, but the stutter chains it down in his throat. You let out another cry—a scream, harsh and loud and high—and slip to your side. You hold a soaked red towel between your legs.

“Diego! GET MOM!”

You don’t have _desperation_ in you. Yet it’s there, cracking, shattering your calm voice.

Bleeding. You’re bleeding. You’re bleeding.

Other bedroom doors hurriedly open at the noise. Diego turns and sprints down the hall, up a flight of stairs, shouting for Mom until he reaches the chaise where she lounges. She stares vacantly at the framed paintings on her wall, wires inlaid on her head for charging. With shaking hands _why are his hands shaking_ Diego turns on the manual switch that overrides Mom’s six o’clock alarm.

She smoothly transitions into the world, and she smiles gently at Diego. “What’s the matter, sweetie—”

An ear-splitting shriek seems to break the mansion in two. Mom’s expression changes; she becomes concentrated, serious in less than a second.

“I-i-i-it’s—”

They don’t have time for Diego’s words to get out. He points downstairs in the direction of your bedrooms. The chargers slink back from Mom’s head. She stands up and walks swiftly down the stairs. Diego follows, trying, trying to talk, fucking _talk, damnit!_

The bathroom crowds with everyone by the time they make it. It’s pandemonium. Luther’s shouts mingle with Klaus’ and Ben’s and Allison’s, but it’s pitted in sharp contrast with Five, who isn’t shouting at anyone except for you. He’s on his knees with your head in his lap, attempting to talk you through the pain that causes your body to convulse. Vanya is beside him, beside you, holding your hand, grimacing through her tears and the strength of which you grip her.

“Tee! Hey, come on, Tee, look at me, focus on me! Tee!”

Five, so normally composed and nonchalant and proud, is utterly lost and terrified when your surreal, wild cries crash over him, when he can do nothing but watch torment consume you. So he invokes your nickname like he always does when he’s scared for you—which is beyond rare. It tells Diego that this is very, very bad.

Mom assesses the situation in a millisecond. She firmly brushes past everyone and says to Five and Vanya, “Excuse me, children, but a mother’s touch is needed here.”

Five argues with her, but Mom deftly picks you up off the floor with the strength she hardly ever needs to use. The towel between your legs drops, revealing a heart-stopping amount of blood. They’ve all seen that people with that much blood outside of them. It never ends well.

“Mom, I—” Vanya tries to speak, but you won’t let go of her, can’t let go of her, and she’s pulled alongside the two of you.

“What’s the matter with Eightie?” Allison shouts over your spasming screams. “Mom? Mom? Mom!”

“I’m not sure,” says Mom. Her pretty dress starts to stain red, but she wears a mask of surety and precision. “Your father will know.”

The world swims with color and how can pain have color? How can color be pain? You taste it cracking through every cell within you, turning white and pink and gold and blue and, and, and so this is what pain is, not the kind of pain that makes your heart hurt when someone lashes out, when Dad is cruel, when Mom stares a little too long at a painting in an attempt to grasp the meaning. This is pain, _pain,_ physical and wrenching and hot and cold.

The shield has cracked.

All you can do is scream.

Vanya is still with you, Vanya, Vanya, you want to say to her, Vanya, _I’m scared, Vanya, I’m scared._

The pain mutes her words, but you almost believe you hear her say, “It’s going to be okay.”

Whether she actually says it or not is beyond you, but you’d like to think her words are true.

Dad, hearing your wild shrieks and the commotion with it, has already prepared a table in the operating room. Through hazy vision that swims, swims with color, color you could have sworn you saw in the deep where there was nobody but you and the other, or is it really another, or is it just you accepting there are parts of you that coexist in conflict, in the song, in the silence, Dad wears a surgical cover and latex gloves, you hope he’s happy. Happy you’re breaking.

“Cease this noise, Number Eight!” he tersely commands, but pain is your parent now, and it directs your body, strings it like a puppet, strings that Vanya’s bow slashes across when she plays Bach’s Partita No. 2 in D minor.

“Don’t tell her to be quiet, bastard!” Five yells, Five, where are you, Five? Five? Leather straps snake around your ankles and wrists, snakes like Medusa, like Five’s Greek fables, snakes slithering in the silence the silence of your screaming you’re scared you’re scared where’s Mom?

“I’m here, honey. Don’t you worry about a thing.” A cool hand lovingly runs across your cheek. Mom, Mom, you’re scared, what’s happening? What is this agony?

“Number Seven, leave this room. You are in the way.”

“She—she won’t let go of me!”

Vanya, Vanya, you’re never in the way, Vanya please stay, please, Five, it’s okay, don’t yell, it’s okay, it isn’t okay but it has to be okay because Vanya said so and Vanya never lies but, but, but you _feel_ it, that cold sinking, sinking to the bottom of the sea, chained with the straps around your ankles.

The colors fade. Silence beckons.

“Pogo, prepare the defibrillator! We are going to lose her—Number Seven, _leave!_ Or do I have to cut off your hand?”

You hold onto Vanya. If you let go, if you let go, if you let go…

Silence beckons.

She holds your hand back, squeezes like she’s trying to push life back into you, back, back, back into the song—

It is a faint ripple, a ringing, cleansing, singing, _Vanya._

Your vision bursts with light, your light, tinged ethereal blue.

You sink into the deep.

-

It takes a full week to make the operating room immaculate again. Mom buys new towels and a shower rod for the bathroom. The floors are clean.

The house, already cast in a perpetual pall, plunges into a quiet shadow.

You awake on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

There is a creak and a rustle, then a straw presses to your lips. You’re nearly too weak to even suck in water, but you manage a sip. It’s enough to sate your impossibly dry mouth.

“About time,” Five murmurs. Your eyes won’t open to see his face, his smirk, his shine.

You think you’re smiling. Hope you’re smiling.

“Mm. Did you…cry?”

“Obviously not,” he lies with a scoff. “No use crying over somebody I knew was going to be fine.”

“Yeah. Love…love you.”

A pause never comes.

“Love you, too.”

You drift again.

-

Klaus dubs it the “Monster Period,” and it sticks because it’s funny and you all want a break from the depressing aftermath.

He’s not entirely wrong. Unlike Allison and Vanya, you hadn’t yet started menstruating. When your body finally decided to do so, it suddenly determined the pain in your uterus must have been a threat, and so it began the process of evacuating the problematic organ. With no way to operate on you, give a blood transfusion, or administer some medicine to counteract the attack, Dad had to leave you to the ordeal.

Nobody says it, but he didn’t expect you to live. They’re too ashamed to admit that they had similar thoughts in the gloom of the manor.

You only remember the pain. Pain and light and more pain. You’re glad you weren’t awake for everything else.

It seems, however, that just as your body tried to kill you, it simultaneously worked to sustain you. The abnormally strong pulse of light you emitted sparked the process of healing, preserving. You remain unconscious for two weeks. It takes two more weeks for you to be able to stand for longer than five minutes without feeling like you’ve run fifteen miles.

Vanya spends the most time with you, followed closely by Five, but the others make sure you know they care about you enough to hang out with your poor self in their free time. Allison does your hair, which has grown out enough to be curled and straightened. Klaus and Diego play cards with you, although it typically results in them bickering about the other cheating (Klaus cheats and instigates it to deflect blame). Ben brings you drafts of his writing he’s never shown anyone before, and he nervously reads on the bed, eyes frequently glancing at you while you make revisions and suggestions. Luther, always so particular about his records, brings you his daily recommendation for you to listen to and talk about.

They all make the days more than bearable. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? They claim to hate each other on an hourly basis, but those words are empty, fleeting. People who hate each other don’t go to such great lengths together.

Mom makes a cross-stich of a Viking shield and hangs it in your room, adding to similar stitches of the Roman Scutum, a kite shield, and a heater shield. Pogo brings a chess board and extra biscuits for you both to nibble on in secret.

You let yourself wallow in sadness when you see what you did to Vanya’s hand. She can still play the violin just fine, but her skin will be forever burn-scar smooth. She tells you she likes it, actually. It’s the first scar she’s ever received, and it’s the closest thing she will ever have to a battle scar.

To try and not let her see your heart break, you say that if she always wanted a scar, she should have just told Diego to throw knives at her. It makes Vanya laugh, soft and nice. Your body heals a little more.

Dad, of course, never acknowledges your near-death experience. Once you are able, life resumes like it had never been paused in the first place.


	5. they're dying to stop you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Run Boy Run"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0boS4e6uXwp3zAvz1mLxZS?si=PfGPWFF0RASUHlHJGVywFA)

“Five.”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. No. You can’t. Dad says—”

“Oh, fuck what Dad says. I can’t _believe_ you’d take his side on this! After you’ve seen how much I’ve come with my powers?”

“I’m not taking his side. I’m taking _my_ side, which happens to coincide with Dad’s but not for the exact reasons. Do you want to hear those reasons?”

“Hm. Not really.”

You ignore Five’s snark. “You could lose yourself to time travel. Insanity, death, a missing limb. You, you could be _stuck.”_

He sneers at you. “Don’t pretend to comprehend something you’re not smart enough for. You’re just regurgitating all of Dad’s nonsense.”

You take an even breath. “Dad is…terrible in a lot of ways. But he has never spouted off any _nonsense._ I know you hate listening to what he says, but—”

“But _what?”_

“Let me finish, Five.”

You pause to make sure he listens. Though agitated, Five keeps himself quiet. You go on.

“We’re not talking about something little. It’s time travel. And as smart as you are, you don’t _know_ everything. So, for once, _please_ listen to somebody else. Or else you’re going to keep running and running without anybody’s direction except your own until you look up and find that you’re in the last place you want to be.”

“Intentionally vague to hide the weak points in your argument.”

“Not everything is an argument.”

“You’re trying to make me see _your_ reason with _your_ opinion. Sounds like an argument to me.”

“And if it is?” You tiredly shrug your shoulders. “You have it in your mind to win every argument. Why bother coming to me? Why bother listening to me? This…this reflexive desire to _win_ and be the smarter one only causes a bigger blind spot in your logic, and you confuse your emotions for reason.”

He steps closer toward you, teeth gritting. “I am not _blind,_ and I do _not_ confuse anything.”

“Then why are you getting so upset because I’m disagreeing with you? A logical person would listen to the merit of what others have to say.”

“Because—” Five bursts, but he stops himself to rein in that emotion, to be the _logical_ one, to never, ever say out loud _because I thought you’d be on my side_. He puts on a saccharine grin. It hurts you. He only ever smiles like that when he’s done with the conversation. “Because I thought you’d be smarter than this.”

“Well,” you say quietly. You don’t like handling pain these days. Five’s barbs sink deeper than usual. You will never be able to bring yourself to tell him. “Guess you were wrong. Maybe for the first time in your life.”

“Huh. Guess I was.” His tongue clicks off the roof of his mouth. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. All those hits to the head must have done some damage to your brain.”

Five leans in and hisses, “And you know what? I’ll _never_ be wrong about something in my life again.”

The arrogance stomps out any hesitation, hides any hurt; when your eyes silently shine, the arrogance keeps the smile on Five’s mouth and turns him out the door.

You sink onto your bed and stare out the window for a long while after. You don’t cry.

-

Dinner displays Dad’s complete lack of interest in all of you. Though everyone is seated in front of him, he doesn’t see Diego carving something into the chair’s armrest, Klaus expertly rolling a blunt, Ben reading, and Luther and Allison doing their little eye-dance. Vanya, the only well-behaved one despite being the most overlooked, eats her roasted carrots in peace. Even you take your dinner knife and idly, ruthlessly dig it into your neck to test if you can puncture skin.

It doesn’t work.

It never does.

What would happen if it did? A spurt of blood, a crunch, a thud, and you’d be gone with your face squarely landing on the dinner plate, crimson covering food like gravy.

You dig harder and pop a piece of Mom’s famous roast beef into your mouth.

Five slamming his own knife into the table snaps your attention to him. Dread immediately fills you, sweet poison, like silence could be a serum.

He’s mixed with sarcasm, vitriol, and obstinance. A lethal combination.

“Number Five?” Dad grates.

“I have a question,” he drawls, not-drawls.

“Knowledge is an admirable goal, but you know the rules. No talking during mealtimes. You are interrupting Herr Carlson.”

Five ignores Dad. “I _want_ to time travel.”

“No.”

“But I’m ready. I’ve been practicing my spatial jumps, just like you said.” Five stands up and teleports right next to Dad. Your nerves twinge. “See?”

Dad is unimpressed. “A spatial jump is trivial when compared with the unknowns of time travel. One is like sliding along the ice, the other is akin to descending blindly into the depths of the freezing water and reappearing as an _acorn.”_

If Five were to look at you, he’d see the closest thing to an I-told-you-so expression on your face. But he keeps his gaze locked on Dad, vitriol growing.

“Well,” Five says lowly, sarcastically, “I don’t get it.”

He thinks he does, though. It’s a challenge to Dad’s own intelligence.

Dad combats it with his own staunch response. “Hence, you’re not ready.”

Vanya shakes her head at Five when he glances around the table. You stay silent and still, but your jaw is tense. The others go back to their dinner; Five’s outbursts are common enough that by now, everyone resumes whatever they’re doing while he goes up against Dad.

You almost, _almost_ get him to calm with the pleading, warning look you give, but Five remembers what you said, and he wants to hurt you through defiance.

“I’m not afraid,” Five snaps.

“Fear isn’t the issue. The effects it might have on your body, even on your mind, are far too unpredictable.”

Five takes one derisive look at nowhere in particular.

He’s not…

No. He couldn’t. He won’t.

Your entire body locks up.

Dad throws his silverware down. “Now, I forbid you to talk about this anymore.”

Five, wait. Five. Five. _Don’t!_

But you’re all too aware of the resolute, defiant scowl he gets, and in the next instant, he sprints out toward the door.

“Number Five! You haven’t been excused—Number Eight, you shall not follow him!”

The order goes unheeded. You catch Five throwing the front door open and racing out, and you think you call out to him but you can’t be certain, Five, please, Five, don’t—you don’t like the feeling this gives you, the feeling of him attempting time travel, please, you just need to _talk_ about it—

You hear the distinct sound of Five teleporting, and you swear it’s the same sound as your heart leaving your body.

The sidewalk is empty.

Dad has returned to eating when you find your way back to your chair. Nobody dares speak unless they want to incur wrath. You numbly pick up your fork and knife again. The roast on the plate is going cold. You eat it with blurred vision, though your cheeks remain dry.

Nobody reads to you that night. Nobody reads to you again.


	6. and i know that someday soon i'll see you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Mary"](https://open.spotify.com/track/6dtB54Z7eICDUOPq3QwXuo?si=XxYJimd-S7Gl4tVBjb4DoA)

A cough comes from behind Five. He whirls around, desperate, _scared,_ and catches a familiar arm exposed in the rubble. The band, the metal band that was welded on your bony wrist and the sparks danced on your skin but you said don’t worry, don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt me, don’t worry.

He’s gasping, clawing at the broken bricks and wood, trying, trying, trying—

_There._

Oh god. Oh god, no. No.

“…Five?”

What’s left of the manor scrapes at Five’s knees when he falls onto them, beside you, beside _you._

You smile. Red stains your lips and trickles slow and warm from the side of your mouth. “Five,” you whisper. “Five.”

More blood pools beneath the bricks that cover the rest of your body. Five is too weak to uncover more and see what he already knows, even though it can’t be true, you don’t break, you _don’t._

He scrambles for your hand and holds onto it. His breath won’t come, won’t enter his lungs, and he can’t speak but he has to, he _has to._

“I knew…I knew you’d come back.” You blink heavily, and there’s a wetness in your chest that makes him grit his teeth in fury, in fear. Tears cloud his vision.

“Shh, hey, it’s okay,” he chokes out, and his other hand, trembling, finds its way to your soot-covered hair.

Your hazy eyes gleam like you know he’s lying. They silently tell Five that you know he’s lying, that you’d teasingly call him out on it, that there’s no time to waste your words.

“What happened? What happened here? Why are you—why do you look the, the same—”

“Five.” The smooth steel in your voice remains, and it brings him to you, quiet. “Vanya…it’s Vanya. I knew she was always sp…special. She needs love. Needs protection. Boy…boyfriend triggers it. She couldn’t, couldn’t control it. Not her fault, though, Five. She needs love. I couldn’t give enough, we couldn’t…but maybe, maybe with you, we can do something good. Something different. Protect her.”

“What does that mean? Hey, hey, stay with me! Stay with me, please— _please._ You’re the shield, remember?”

“Even shields can break.”

More blood falls from your mouth, and your hand grows cold even though it’s supposed to be warm, it’s supposed to be warm because you’re warm because you’re light, because you’re you.

“Five.” The doom around you almost swallows your voice, but he’s close enough to hear your words. He clings to them, memorizing each syllable, each lilt, each scratch. “I’m sorry we…didn’t get to dance. I’m sorry.”

Tears fall freely onto the ash and dust. Five strokes your hair, and he attempts a wavering smile. “We’ll dance. I promise. We’ll dance in the—” A sob heaves from his chest. “In the light, in that house. Okay?”

You continue to smile. Five brings your hand to his cheek, and he sobs again when your thumb weakly reaches over to try and press to the other side of his face. Knowing what you want to do, Five repositions your hand. Your palm rests under his chin, fingers delicately touching each cheek. You give the slightest squeeze.

“Five,” you sigh. He wants to look away because looking away means this might not be real, but it is, it all is—the agony of despair inside him is too real, and it claws its way up his throat, through his blood, into his bones.

He refuses to look away from you, clinging to your life, to his, _wishing_ against hope.

_“Five.”_

Your gaze stays on him but no longer sees.

A shuddering cry leaves Five’s body. “Tee?” he whispers, as if using your sacred nickname only he can form on his tongue will bring you back. “Tee?”

Silent, so silent.

He keels over, forehead pressing to yours, and raggedly screams.


	7. i wanna grow old before i grow up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["All Die Young"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4XjXXK9GhDdMVR8xMKZLih?si=c1QFs5YqTCG2PR-1QJvrcg)

I assumed one of those scorned, shameful silences would follow after Dad’s lecture. And, in part, it did. What could any of us say to that? Ben’s death was our fault. We ate the guilt up no matter how bitter it tasted. That’s the odd thing about guilt: we take it when we shouldn’t, when we don’t deserve it.

At the Umbrella Academy, Dad twisted us into believing that guilt was not only a flavor, but our favorite.

It came as a dull shock when Eight’s voice cut through the snow falling from above.

As Dad turned to leave us to our shame, our grief, Eight said to him, “You’re a terrible person, you know that? And one of these days, we’ll all be gone, free from your cruelty. Then you’ll have nobody but Ben’s grave to keep you company, but I doubt even his ghost will want to stick around because he’ll see the irony of you paying him a fraction of more attention in death than you did in life.”

Eight, always the shield, always our defender. She stood there with the black umbrella held firmly above her. I had never heard her voice so frigid. I had never seen her gaze so unrelenting. She would not let Dad walk away after cutting so deep into our souls.

Nobody but Five ever spoke to Dad like she just had. Not even herself. And even then, Five spat words with wit and precision; Eight’s words carried a stony weight, like a cold, single bullet in the barrel of a long-unused gun. She was a statue herself among us, unmoving and silently fierce. Unbreakable.

Dad did not respond to Eight’s words. He left us in the snowy white courtyard with Ben’s plaque gleaming against its color.

I have never seen Eight cry. Ben’s death made no difference. Eight stood stoic, unsmiling but assuring, and when she blinked, no tears gathered on her lashes.

-

“My absolute _favorite_ moment,” Five grins. “I know I’ve said it a million times, but to imagine you say that…fuck. I love it. Love it.”

He lets out a breath, grin fading.

“Just wish I was there for it.”

-

Though we all came out of the house with our own cancers and nightmares, it is a complete mystery that Eight was the person she was and the woman she is now.

I am not only saying this because she is my editor.

If we could never have Dad’s approval, then we would find it in Eight. We would all eventually gravitate to her in the end, seeking her smile, wanting our hands to be held by hers, knowing our pains could be soothed by her simple but sincere words. In some way or another, we wanted to be like Eight, to be a person seemingly unscathed by Dad and the academy. She never got angry or lashed out; her quietness, at times, could be mistaken for apathy, but just as we would ready ourselves to say something hurtful, she gave a response constructed only from thoughtful consideration.

Nobody who grew up under the roof of Reginald Hargreeves could hardly agree on a single thing, but I believe we could all agree that Eight’s true power was not her unbreakable body or luminescence, but her intuition, her empathy, her healing love. And compared to eight children being born on the same day by women who were not pregnant the day before, the more impossible reality is that Eight acted solely in kindness throughout the seventeen years we lived together at the Umbrella Academy.

Once we turned seventeen, however, Eight made it clear she did not want to continue living there, much like the rest of us. The academy—and the losses within it—had impacted her far more than she would want to admit. I take a small amount of pride in that Eight took _my_ hand, scarred from her light, and told me we would leave together. She kept her promise, even without Five to be with us, because a broken promise is a broken shield.

Out of all our siblings, Eight always saw me, and she never let me slip into the shadows of her gaze.

I try my best not to let her slip away, either. She almost did once before.

She still sways to my music sometimes, a ghost of what we did when we were children, although it happens far and few between. I think the dance in her died when Five never came home, which is a great, small tragedy lost to her locked-away despair.

Eight never cried over Five, but I think she came close, and maybe in her little room under the cover of blankets and the night, she did. She never has told me.

Mom named us all, as I’ve mentioned earlier, but Eight never received a name because she declined one, like Five. For the longest time, I thought she did it because she and Five were close even at a young age, and she wanted to impress him. Back then, we all craved to impress Five, to feel like we could achieve his superiority—even for a brief moment. Now, though, I see Eight did it because she didn’t want Five to feel alone.

It was always her goal to make us not feel alone. Still is, however difficult we can be.

-

“Yeah, and I got mad at you for not choosing a name,” Five mutters. He runs a finger over a paragraph, and if he keeps doing it like all the times he has before, the ink will rub out. “Mom had such a nice one picked for you, too.” His brows quirk a little, and he sticks his lower lip out. “Don’t remember _what_ the name was, yeah, but I remember being it nice.”

He’s said similar words over similar topics, but it doesn’t stop him from also saying, “I’m glad you got Vanya out of there. Sucks being alone.” Five laughs. It’s sharp and dry. He then screams to the sun-blistered void he takes shade from, “I would fucking know!”

-

Life took an interesting turn when we discovered Eight hadn’t truly aged ever since her incident. Somehow, her powers had cocooned her body to keep her alive, and in the process, it kept her from growing older like the rest of us. She bore the burden well. Eight joked about just being glad her hair still grew out and she wouldn’t have another period for the rest of her life.

She also mentioned hunting perverts, using her pseudo-teenage body to lure in men. Diego was _very_ fond of the idea, and they conspired to no end about it.

I’m still not sure if they ever did, but every so often, there is an occasional rise in predator arrests in the city.

Eight lives a private, quiet life in the city as a freelance editor who works under a ghost name. Fixing little mistakes and making improvements to other’s writing had always been a small passion she excelled in. Eight doesn’t edit for perfection; she edits to uncover truths too hard to initially accept, but truths that make the work better.

It was a hard thing, she admitted during a round of my revisions for this book, to see the narrative so differently, especially when it ran so close yet so far from hers.

The obstacle did not stop Eight. The only thing she had truly been unable to attain, unable to complete, was getting Five back. I used to wish she had run after him sooner to stop him from testing time travel, but then again, I never ran in the first place. None of us did. Only Eight.

-

Five stares at the paragraph describing why you hadn’t aged unlike the others. The empty, stale mournfulness he had long grown accustomed to in this wasteland settles around his heart like a carapace.

“I’m so sorry, Tee,” he says. “I never said that to you, did I? That I was sorry. But I’m sorry, sorry for everything. Sorry you went through all this shit without me. Sorry…I never looked back. I shoulda looked back. Because, because you were right, you know? Fuck, you were right, and I didn’t listen, and that made you all the more right.”

He scrubs his runny nose with the back of his jacket sleeve. The mourning cracks in his chest.

“I ran too far, Tee.”

A baleful wind scrapes at the wasteland.


	8. it's just no good anymore since you went away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["One"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4KkGTqja19AHqItq3XBV3C?si=_1nuZPMQTiOfbB-uqjjSXA)

“Vanya fucking _told_ on us.”

“Oh, so you read it?” you ask.

“Yes—but that’s not the point,” Diego growls. He slouches in the passenger seat of your car—because you’re the responsible one with a car. You also don’t dress like some ninja extra on one of Allison’s movie sets.

Well. On most nights. Tonight, you don’t look much better than Diego. You have less knives, though. Two vigilantes (one full-time and one less-than-part-time) sit in your 2008 Toyota Corolla, waiting for a man interested in meeting up with a teenage girl.

“She _shit_ on our entire family name. And honestly? I’m surprised you let her publish it. Why did you even encourage that fucking garbage?”

You lightly tap your fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the pop song playing on the radio.

“Vanya never had a voice in that house, Diego. The book gave her a voice now. And besides, what did you expect? That she had nothing but good things to say about her life growing up?”

“Well, no, but, but…”

“Diego, if you wrote a book about the academy, what would _you_ have written about?”

His answer is sullen silence.

“Exactly,” you half-huff.

“Just…shut up about it, okay? Look, the pervert’s here.” Diego uses a knife to point to the approaching figure.

“Oh, great. Don’t forget to put your mask on. And hey— _you_ were the one who brought it up.” You slam the door before Diego flings a retort.

The man comes with smiles and eager hands. He’s met with three knives in his thigh, a steel kick to the groin, and a faced so beat up that the police department can hardly identify him by the wanted poster stapled to his jacket.

“And admit it,” you say between ducking one of Diego’s punches to go in for a jab, “you kinda liked being recognized as the vigilante.”

He throws more punches at you. “She called me an ‘angry boy in a fighter’s body.’ Doesn’t sound like good recognition to me.”

Your feet skid across the boxing ring Diego and you fight in. You’re the only one willing to spar against him and be at the same level he fights at. You have to do it after dark, though, because Diego doesn’t like it when you beat him and he gets laughed at by others in the gym for being taken down by a supposed teen.

“Um, I believe the correct description was a ‘furious child who believes in heroes and thinks he can find acceptance in the life that constantly rejected him.’”

Diego snarls. He manages to kick a leg out from under you, and you find yourself thrown to the ground with him pinning you back. “How could you let her _write_ that? It’s not true!”

“Maybe not to you,” you reply. Your cheek squishes against the ring’s floor. “But it is to Vanya. Isn’t her truth important as well?”

“That’s not what—it’s not the _point—_ ”

You use Diego’s distraction to your advantage and maneuver until you’re the one that has him pinned. He cries out frustratedly. “Then what is the point?” you ask.

He rolls his eyes and pushes you off.

“The point,” Diego says two days later as he moves his clothes from your washer to the dryer, “is that she said nothing good, and you basically let her write it all down! You’re culpable, too.”

“Mm, yes, I remember learning that an editor’s job is to redact information if it’s a little too unpleasant. I’ll get it next time.”

“You know, you’re really shit at being sarcastic.”

“Says the guy standing in a double-xl Cookie Monster t-shirt while he does his laundry at his sisters’ place.”

“Alright, yeah, I get the irony, but _you_ were the one who picked this dumb fucking shirt, not me.”

“I got tired of you walking around in your undies while you waited for your all-dark load to dry. I could have had Vanya put _this_ image in the book, but I didn’t, so I’m not _all_ evil.”

Diego goes to slam the dryer door shut. You quickly point and say, “Oh, wait, throw a dryer sheet in. It’ll get the static out.”

“Right. Thanks.”

-

“How’d the audition go?”

Vanya shrugs, trying to play it off as casual, but the little frown at the corner of her mouth betrays her. “No luck.”

“Boo! Boo! That’s shit! Vanya, you totally deserve the chair!” You throw your purple editing pen down and stand up. “I know you don’t get mad, so I’ll get mad for you!”

“It’s fine, it really is, I think I just need a drink…” She then sputters a laugh when she sees you throw punches in the air, then a kick, then a few more jabs before a violent uppercut.

“Got the—conductor—now that bitch who thinks she—owns the first chair—and that one guy who tripped you last week—”

“—That was an accident—”

“—and everyone else who wants to fuck with Vanya Hargreeves! Guess what? You gotta go through me, first!” You pretend to body slam someone into the couch, your own body falling onto the cushions, and Vanya lets out another laugh. You sit up, hair disheveled, and throw her a grin.

“Got ‘em all,” you declare.

“You did,” Vanya chuckles. “Can I make us some drinks now?”

“Yeah, yeah, make them drinks. I’m going to call Allison and tell her about this complete bullshit.”

“Okay.”

-

“Oh, Klaus.”

“Ben…Ben says hi, a-and that I’m a waste—a waste of space.”

“I’m sure he’s not saying that. It’s probably more along the lines of, ‘Klaus, I can’t believe you’re doing this again when you could just ask for help and start getting your life straight instead of going on a binge.'”

“No, not at all—shut up.”

“Well, you can talk to him, so it must mean you’re coming back up to the surface.”

“I’m not, I’m really not, oh, hey, is that a box of Zebra Cakes?”

“It is.” You hold the grocery bag up higher. “Wanna have some coffee with one, take a shower, sober up?”

Klaus clumsily rolls into a standing position. The other tenants in the small apartment complex you and Vanya live in are used to the fashionable druggie occasionally loitering the building’s front steps.

You worry about him. You worry a lot. Klaus pretends you don’t so he doesn’t feel guilty. Ben looks out for him, but he’s a ghost. He can only speak to Klaus, and most of his words, like yours and Vanya’s, go ignored.

He thinks you’re ashamed of loving him because of the person he has become, because of the things he takes to keep the spirits away, and that’s why he sneaks out of the apartment even after you say he can stay forever if he’d like. But you’re not. Love, actual love, doesn’t come with shame.

You give Klaus two Zebra Cakes, and he makes a constant stream of jokes to avoid breaking down. Even then, he flicks away tears when you give him a long hug and tell him you’re happy he’s home. You extend your arm out for Ben to fit in the hug, and even though you can’t physically feel him, your arm shimmers with light tinged blue.

-

You slide a chess piece across the board. Pogo hums and takes a moment to consider his next move. He’s always been tough to beat, but you don’t come to visit him with winning a game of chess in mind.

When Vanya has lessons in the apartment, you try to make yourself scarce. During her lesson each Wednesday at eleven, you find yourself back at the mansion to visit Pogo and Mom. The mansion always had a lonely feel to it, but with everyone gone, you worry about them. Pogo at least had Luther until Dad shipped him off to the moon. Mom is…alright. You’re concerned her system is eroding. And with no children to take care of, she’s stopped getting updates and repairs from Dad.

Reginald Hargreeves holes himself up in his study all hours of the day and night, so you don’t have any anxiety over accidentally seeing him. It’s like he himself exists in a separate reality.

“Who wants cookies?” Mom chimes. She sets a platter next to the chess board.

“Ooh, thank you, Mom,” you say, and you beckon her to lean down so you can give her a peck on the cheek. She giggles.

“You’re welcome, sweetie. Oh—I forgot a glass of milk for you two! I’ll be right back.”

Mom straightens and turns, and as she walks away, her steps stutter as if she forgot where the kitchen was. Then, after a moment, she resumes her pace and moves from view.

Pogo sets a chess piece down. You pick up a cookie and consider what to do next. “Oh,” you suddenly say, reaching into your purse, “I brought stuff for Luther when you send him another capsule.”

“Excellent,” Pogo smiles. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it very much. What have you decided to send this time?”

You set the small stack of items on the table’s remaining space. “A few books I read and enjoyed, this neat little puzzle I found downtown, a letter about what’s going on, and some photos I took from when Allison came to visit around our birthday and I managed to wrangle everyone for a semi-functional party.”

“Yes, I remember you telling me about the birthday dinner. Klaus fell into the birthday cake, and Diego left a knife mark in your apartment wall that will make it highly unlikely for you to get your deposit back.”

You chuckle. “Yeah. But it wasn’t the worst time we had together. Everybody enjoyed themselves, as much as they didn’t want to admit it. I missed Luther, though. Guessing he probably misses us, too. The pictures might make him homesick, but they’ll also make him feel better.”

Talking about your siblings makes your gaze want to draw to the large painting of someone you loved on the wall. You don’t let it wander.

Mom comes back with two glasses of cold milk. Once she sets it down, she sits beside you on the sofa to idly watch the game. You take her hand.

“I’m sure it will do him some good,” Pogo agrees. You slide a pawn over onto a different tile. He had been vague about why Luther was sent to the moon. You just know that there had been an accident during a mission, and though Luther was injured, he made a full recovery. Shortly after, Dad sent him into space, and he hadn’t been back since.

Part of you fears Dad will never want Luther to come back. Something bad must have happened. He’s Number One—he would not have been shipped off like this under normal circumstances.

You’d say it makes you resent Dad more, but that cup is already filled to the brim, so it’s no use to cause an overflow. You just sigh and, with a heavy heart, say, “Pogo…why do you stay?”

“Because Master Hargreeves is my dearest friend,” Pogo replies while he considers where to put his knight. “I could not leave his side.”

“You’ve been with him since forever. You know how he can be…”

“Difficult.”

“More like terrible. To us. To Mom. Why don’t you come away for a bit? I bet I can get Allison to charter a private jet for us. We could go somewhere you always wanted to go.”

Pogo chuckles. “My dear, although I have faith in Allison’s ability to rumor those around her to not see me as I am, I doubt even she could use it to the extent necessary.”

“Then, then we’ll rent a private beach house or cabin—I mean, Allison will, because she’s rich. You can see the ocean, swim in it a bit, meet Claire and Patrick, watch us cope with all our poor life choices. It’d be fun.”

“The last time I was in the ocean,” Pogo says wryly, “it did not fare well for me.”

You both pause. Pogo hesitates and quickly moves the knight. “But it was a long time ago,” he quickly adds. “Best not to delve into it.”

“Wait, no, you don’t get to brush that off,” you say with a wag of your finger. “Come on, Pogo, I _want_ to know what happened.”

“It is…nothing, I assure you.”

You give an unimpressed look. “Doesn’t sound like nothing. I’d like to hear about your life before the academy. I’m sure you haven’t told _nearly_ enough people about it.”

He still seems reluctant, so you say to Mom, “Isn’t that right? Pogo needs to share. Sharing is good for the soul.”

Mom smiles and nods. “It is. Sharing and soup, that’s what’ll perk the soul right up. Does anybody want soup?”

“Not right now, Mom, but thank you.”

A sigh usually reserved for Klaus or Diego is directed at you, but Pogo takes a cookie and says, “Oh, very well, if you insist.”

You grin and move another pawn to draw the game out longer.

-

“Allison, Allison, hey, slow down, what’s happening?”

Her voice comes out shrill and panicked and angry on the other end. Vanya, hearing it, looks up in concern from her book. You beckon her over to the phone you hold to your ear. She comes to stand beside you, and through tears and static, you both piece together through half-audible words that Patrick wants a divorce and how he’ll probably get custody of Claire.

“Wait, why—Allison—”

She’s losing it on the other end and doesn’t hear your questions over her own uncontrolled sobs. You take a breath.

“Allison.”

The shift in your tone gets her to calm herself enough to choke back her crying.

“Come home, Allison. We’ll sort this out together.”

“I can’t, I can’t, Eightie, I can’t just _leave,_ I have to appear in court—”

“Then we’ll come to you, alright?”

She lets out a shaky breath. “No—I couldn’t possibly ask for you and Vanya to, to fly all the way across the fucking country for _me.”_

“You’re not asking. I’m telling you. Don’t worry about a single thing. Vanya and I will get arrangements sorted out, and I’ll call you when I can get down a departure date.”

Allison loudly sniffs. “Thank…thank you, Eightie.”

“I love you,” you say, and it causes her to stifle another sob. “You’re not going to go through this alone.”

“I love you, too,” Vanya adds clearly enough for Allison to hear.

“And I love you guys.” You sense the smile, as pained as it is, in Allison’s voice. “I can’t wait to see you both.”

It turns out, Vanya hates planes, but she braves through the flight. Los Angeles turns you both tan, and Allison’s life becomes a bit easier with you both beside her.

She thinks you’d be disappointed in her when you find out she rumored Claire, her husband, and those she worked with to do what she wanted, loved how she wanted, listened how she wanted.

“You don’t disappoint me,” you say as you hold her. “You’d never disappoint me. This is just something you have to get past, now, isn’t it? Learning can come painfully. But one day, the pain will be gone, and you’ll like the person you’ve been forged into.”

Allison says she doesn’t want the pain but understands she inflicted it upon herself. She wishes she could have just been a better person in the first place.

“We all do. We all do.”

-

“Hello?”

“Eight, I’m afraid I have some…grave news.”

“Pogo?” Vanya tenses at the mention of his name from where she sits on the couch. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s your father. He’s dead.”


	9. running just as fast as we can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["I Think We're Alone Now"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4uvjOKsp7mSjrDhWdkLPBY?si=voQbJIYHQk2xYc0BZZTZmQ)

You don’t want the entire family to come together like this. They’re already…jaded enough as it is, so pressed together under strenuous circumstances makes them, well, _volatile._

“I guess we should get this started,” Luther says, standing. You cross one leg over the other and keep your posture straight. You’ve worn a simple, slim, long-sleeved black dress for the funeral accompanied by sheer black nylons. A delicate gold necklace hangs around your neck. The outfit is somewhat offset by the casual black sneakers you have on.

“Eight, I’d first like to thank you for helping Pogo out with the funeral arrangements.”

“Yeah,” Diego says snidely, “thanks for helping cremate Dad’s crusty body.”

“So responsible, so reliable!” Klaus calls from where he’s making a drink. “That’s our Eightie!”

Luther goes on for some time after. He tries to be the leader, but too many years and too many hurts have made him hard to listen to, let alone follow. The conversation about where to have Dad’s memorial service quickly devolves into, hey, Dad might’ve been murdered by one of you.

 _That_ really brings the family together.

As they all leave to roam about the house, away from Number One, you stay. Luther sighs. “That went well.”

“I don’t think any of us killed Dad,” you say. “We may have resented him, hated him, but not to the point where we’d deliberately go through all the steps to kill him. He didn’t deserve that kind of attention from us.”

You stand and pat Luther on his arm. “If one of us _had_ decided to kill Dad, though, we certainly wouldn’t have let him off with something as easy as a heart attack.”

The corner of Luther’s lip quirks upward. “That’s…a fair point, I guess.”

“But you’re onto something with the monocle. Keep it in mind. It might be important later on.”

Eyes lighting up, Luther quickly says, “So you believe me with that?”

“Yeah, of course I do.” The smile on your face slips. “Luther, are you…are you okay? I was worried about you up there, all by yourself.”

“Ah, well,” he says, trying to brush off the sorrow immediately welling in his eyes, “I had my plant. And, and I had all that stuff you sent me—which, by the way, I never got to thank you for, so…so thanks. It kept me sane.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear. And you know if there’s anything you ever want to talk about, I’m always here, right?”

Conflict briefly crosses Luther’s face, but he shoves it down. Dad made you all experts at boxing away emotion, believing that weakness resided in it. You’ve tried to unlatch the box, little by little, but you still struggle. More goes in than comes out. Everybody else struggles, too, with Luther being one of the worst. He’s Number One. Just Number One. Dad’s chains continue to bind him.

“I will, Eightie. Thanks.”

-

You haven’t been back into your room since the day you left with Vanya in tow. There’s not much left over. All you cherished you took with you, including Mom’s cross-stitches, pictures, posters, and figurines. Your finger runs across the small bookshelf in your room. The novels, magazines, and comics you left behind hadn’t been moved in over a decade. Origami animals stand like sentinels, dust their armor. The frog you made who knows how long ago still jumps when you thump your finger against it.

One magazine stands out. It’s more worn than the others, dog-eared and creased. You flip open to a page. Nostalgia fills you, and you smile.

The mid-century modern fantasy never came true. You like to remember dreaming about it, though, dreaming about a life where you could all be together with those high windows, where Five didn’t leave and Ben was still alive. Where you dreamed at all.

You sit down on the old bed. It creaks underneath your weight. You turn to the next page, and the one after that. You were such an odd child, imagining a house to live in instead of other things that normal children would imagine.

Then again, none of you had been raised as normal children, so you let it slide.

Music, muted but familiar, draws your attention from the magazine. It’s most definitely coming from Luther’s room. He must have put a record on. It’s an old pop song you haven’t heard in forever, one that you’d all be silly and wild to when you were kids before Mom could gently chastise you for being up after bedtime.

You find yourself getting back on your feet.

The song makes you want to dance.

Though you try to restrain yourself, your shoulders start to bump to the beat. You laugh to yourself. It’s silly, so stupid silly, but…

Both hands lift up above your head. Your hips move from side-to-side. You lazily twirl, mouthing lyrics you thought you would have forgotten. Fingers splay, feet slide, and you find yourself dancing, dancing, dancing alone to the music, dancing, arms and shoulders and hands doing most of the heavy lifting while your lower body assists, when did you last dance like this? It’s—kinda—n—

Blue streaks through the sky, coming in turbulent, high-pitched pulses. The electricity surges, and the house plunges into stormy darkness illuminated only by the dizzying color.

You freeze, then your arms lower.

This color, this color is…

You race out of the room. Allison and Luther do the same, and you jog down the stairs together. Klaus, Vanya, and Diego are already making their way out to the courtyard where the center of the pulses come from. You three follow them, but Luther soon takes the lead beside Diego.

The noise is near cacophonous as you step outside. Unnatural wind whips at your hair.

“What is it?” Vanya shouts.

“Don’t get too close!” Allison puts one hand on Luther’s arm and one on yours.

Diego can’t stop being sarcastic even in a dire situation. “Yeah, no shit!”

“Looks like some sort of temporal anomaly,” Luther remarks. “Either that or a miniature black hole. One of the two.”

It hurts your eyes, but you try your best to peer into the anomaly. The blue is radiant, and you don’t dare hope, _don’t you dare fucking hope._ What lays on the other side comes through distortedly, but you think, you think you can pick out a fence, some grass, and, and, and…

“Pretty big difference there, Paul Bunyan!”

“Outta the way!”

Klaus surges through everyone and fucking chucks a fire extinguisher into the anomaly. Well, first he tries to extinguish it, but after that doesn’t work, it gets lobbed.

Allison screams, “What is that gonna do?”

 _“I don’t know!_ Do you have a better idea?”

A man, or at least you think it’s a man, appears on the other side.

“He’s…screaming,” you say, though only Allison can hear. But you recognize the clenched fists. You instinctively go to take a step forward, except Luther shoves himself in front of you.

“Everybody get behind me!”

“Yeah, yeah, get behind us!” Diego adds.

Even now, it’s always a fucking competition between those two.

“If _anything,_ you should all get behind me!” You shout, ducking under Luther’s arm to stand in front of him. You put your arms out to protect them as best you can, ready to be the shield, always the shield.

“I vote for running, come on!”

But nobody listens to Klaus, not even Klaus. You stay and watch, shock jolting your system, and the older man crosses into the center of the anomaly. His face is still a mask of agony, but in an instant, it’s a mask of agony on a younger face, in a younger body, which then tumbles out onto the other side—your side—and falls several feet through the air. He lands face-first onto the cold, leaf-strewn ground.

The portal—because that’s what it is, _a portal—_ closes shut.

Daylight overtakes the courtyard. The figure stands up, disheveled, staggering. You move closer with the others. Your arms drop.

No way. No _fucking_ way.

You’re not sure if you say those words out loud or not.

“Um, does anyone else see little Number Five,” Klaus says, “or is that just me?”

Klaus’ statement has Five, _Five, he’s here, he’s back,_ looking down at himself to see a too-big suit that fit him only moments ago.

He looks back up, at all of you, at none of you.

_“Shit.”_


	10. see what's become of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Hazy Shade of Winter"](https://open.spotify.com/track/1tBZnhDT8xbgJTs43FiqrD?si=oEoj94a0QqqZmSPj9Y1SFQ)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't leave you hanging so here's an extra chapter for the day...as a treat

It’s Five, so of course he doesn’t want a sweet reunion or hugs or questions. He brushes past everyone, even you, to head inside, angrily rolling up the sleeves of his suit jacket while he walks and mutters.

None of you have any idea of what else to do, so you follow Five back inside.

Is this for real? You want to ask. Is this fucking for real? Five. It’s Five. Five, who you thought was gone, who you thought you’d let go of but never really did, who you wanted to hope for but his voice in your head always argued back for you to be realistic.

Five immediately heads into the kitchen. You take seats around the table while he snatches food off the shelves and out of the fridge. He sighs. “What’s the date? The _exact_ date.”

“The twenty-fourth,” Vanya answers.

“Of what?” Five follows up, agitated.

“March.”

He pauses to untangle a loaf of bread. “Good.”

“So,” says Luther, “are we gonna talk about what just happened?”

No answer. Luther stands.

“It’s been fifteen years.”

Five scoffs. You never thought you’d hear the noise again. It’s as petulant as ever. “It’s been a lot longer than that.”

He teleports to grab marshmallows. Luther mutters, “Haven’t missed that.”

“Where’d you go?” Diego questions.

“The future. It’s shit, by the way.”

“Called it!” Klaus has to chime in.

“I should’ve listened to the old man,” Five says resignedly. “Should’ve listened to Eight, too.”

The mention of your name almost startles you.

“You know, jumping through space is one thing, jumping through time is the toss of a dice.”

Five begins to slap together a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich. He glances at Klaus. “Nice dress.”

“Oh, well, danke!”

“Wait,” Vanya says, splaying her hands. “How did you get back?”

“In the end, I had to project my consciousness forward into a suspended quantum state version of myself that exists across every possible instance of time.”

Diego snorts. “That makes no sense.”

“Well, it would if you were smarter.”

Diego goes to jump up, Five’s words getting a rise out of him, but you place a hand on his shoulder.

“I doubt the future made him any kinder,” you say to Diego. Although he scowls, he takes in your words and relaxes _slightly_.

Five initially pretends that he doesn’t hear you, but he can’t hold back his retort. “No shit, the future hasn’t made me kinder. I was stuck there for forty-three years.”

The truth gives you all pause. Your heart aches, but you try not to let it show on your face.

“So what’re you saying?” Luther asks. “That you’re fifty-eight?”

“No, my consciousness is fifty-eight,” Five replies in that impatient tone of his. “Apparently my body is now fifteen again.” The ache in your heart mingles with anger. You don’t want to immediately feel this after believing you’d never see him again, but his attitude, that staple _arrogance,_ doesn’t sit well with you.

“Hey, look at it this way,” Klaus says with his HELLO palm spanning outward, “at least you’re not the only one trapped in a widdle body here. Right, right Eightie?”

“Right,” you breathe. Five says nothing about it, though, and Klaus deflates.

The conversation ends shortly after with Five walking off, peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich in hand, saying, “Circle of life!” over his shoulder in regard to Dad’s death.

As soon as he’s disappeared, all heads swivel to you.

“What,” you huff.

“Aren’t you going to…do anything?” says Allison. “Like, that’s _Five._ Your, your…” She finishes with a lame, “Other.”

“Yeah, and he’s even crankier than he was as an actual teen!” Klaus whines. “I’m betting he’ll be absolutely _unbearable.”_ He drags both hands down his face for extra effect.

“Insufferable little prick,” Diego snaps under his breath. “Go do something about it, Eightie.”

“He barely even looked at me, at any of us,” you say, half-musing. “For someone who’s been in the future for forty-three years, he, he doesn’t seem all that happy to be back.”

“When was Five ever really happy?” Luther scoffs.

“He had his moments,” you respond. You stand and tug your dress down. “Something bad must have happened in those decades separated from us.”

You quietly walk from the kitchen with everybody watching you leave.

Nervousness has never been a characteristic of yours, so it transitions into worry. Worry over Five, over what he saw, over what who he became, over what he may have to cope with.

You make your way up the stairs and to the floor where all your old rooms reside. Five’s door is open. You hear light shuffling inside. Your hand doesn’t shake when you creak the door wider, but you feel like it should be. You should be. This is all wrong, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go, it’s supposed to be, to be, to…

But reuniting with Five the way you imagined is just like the mid-century modern. Nothing but a fantasy in your mind, unreflective of reality.

“What.”

Five adjusts the academy blazer he’s thrown on. He has his body shifted away from you and keeps himself occupied by perfecting the outfit. You take in the clothes and softly smile.

“The ensemble suits you.”

“Yeah, well,” Five scoffs, “it’s the _only_ thing that fits me right now. Because, you know, of the whole being-stuck-in-a-teenage-body dilemma.”

“Mm. Yeah. I know.”

He shoots a glance your way. You catch a hint of regret. “Right.” Five fully turns to you and spreads his arms out for a second. “How do I look?”

“Great,” you reply. After a moment of silence whose companionship you’ve long grown accustomed to, you step farther into the room. The door shuts behind you. “Five, look, I wanted to…to talk.”

“Everyone wants to talk. It’s annoying.”

“Is it so bad for us to want to understand what happened to you? Where you went? What you did? Why—”

“Where, what, when, why, how, are you done yet?”

“No. Five, are you alright?”

He smirks flatly at you. “Eight, always the concerned one. But guess what?” He strides close to you, and you can smell the closet clinging to his old uniform. “I don’t _need_ your concern, alright? I lived without it for forty-three years—”

“That’s exactly why I’m worried. You didn’t have anyone, did you?”

Five flinches at your cut-off, your question. It gives you the answer you need, though he won’t say it out loud.

Slowly, you begin to lift your hand to cup his face, to remember what it’s like to feel his skin under your fingers, to assure yourself that he’s _actually_ standing here with his same hair and same eyes and same mouth.

You get close, so close, but Five gently grasps your wrist to stop you. He has an immense amount of guilt in his gaze for such a simple touch. You ignore the pain in your heart.

“We…have a lot to talk about,” he mutters, not exactly meeting your eyes. “Lots to go over. But not right now. Gotta attend a memorial service, first.”

It’s an evasion, you can tell. Five has never been one to evade. He lets go of your wrist and slips past you, but you’re desperate to reach out for him, wrap him up in your arms, _anything._

“Five,” you call. He pauses, the door already open. “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

He doesn’t turn his head to you, though you do hear a somber, tired, “Yeah. Missed you, too.”

-

The last time you stood in the courtyard with your siblings and an umbrella over your head, Ben had just been buried. You almost smirk not at the memory, but at Vanya’s depiction of the memory from her perspective.

She made you out to be brave and strong. But really, you had been grieving, hollow, angry. You don’t even have a full recollection of what you said to Dad; it was blurred by your furious despair. The rage within you burned from inside out, blinding and deafening. You had never hated before. You haven’t hated again.

If Luther had known how you felt toward Dad at that exact moment, he would have put you as a prime suspect for his murder.

Rainwater soaks the canvas of your sneakers. You stand between Mom and Vanya. From the breath billowing from everyone, it’s supposed to be cold. The temperature barely brushes against your skin.

“Did something happen?” Mom sweetly asks.

Allison’s brows scrunch. “Dad died. Remember?”

Her expression falls. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

Diego, the other one who refused an umbrella like Luther, watches her with concern and care. You’ve had conversations with each other about Mom’s deteriorating state multiple times, which is more of a tragedy than Dad dying a thousand times.

“Is Mom okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine,” Diego curtly answers. “She just needs to rest. You know, recharge.”

When you stretch out your hand for Mom to take, she laces her fingers through yours. You make it clear she can read your expression, which tells her you’re right here.

Pogo, the last one to arrive in the courtyard, cane scraping against the shallow dirt, steps beside Vanya. He somberly says to Luther, “Whenever you’re ready, dear boy.”

Luther reverently steps forward with Dad’s urn. He opens the lid and pours the ashes out onto the muddy, wet, moldy-leaved ground. They lump in a sandy gray pile.

Klaus grimaces and takes a drag of his cigarette with a shaking hand.

You bow your head, lips scrunching to the side to hide a laugh.

Luther looks up at all of you, slightly mortified. “Probably would have been better with some wind.”

Pogo takes it all in stride. “Would anyone wish to speak?” He has always held out hope that you would, in any shape or form, have something good to say about Dad. You don’t blame him for it; after all, Dad had basically made him not only what he was but raised him like a child in some sense. His perspective was shaped by that care.

If only he had done the same to all of you.

Pogo’s question is met with silence. He shifts. “Very well. In all regards, Sir Reginald Hargreeves made me what I am today. For that alone, I shall forever be in his debt.” When Pogo’s face begins to twist, he takes a breath to smooth it out. “He was my master…and my friend. And I shall miss him very much.”

Going on, Pogo says, “He leaves behind a complicated legacy—”

“He was a monster,” Diego cuts off.

“Diego,” you hiss, not because he’s wrong, but because of Pogo’s obvious tender, sad moment.

Klaus, of course, laughs.

“What?” Diego goes on, ignorant of the situation. “He was a bad person and a worse father. You said it yourself, Eightie. Remember? The world’s better off without him.”

Allison utters a terse, “Diego.”

“My name is Number Two,” he goes on. You recognize the build in him, the approaching snap. “You know why? Because our father couldn’t be bothered to give us actual names. He had Mom do it.”

At the mention, Mom asks, “Would anyone like something to eat?”

You give her hand a squeeze and smile, “Maybe a little later, Mom.”

She grins demurely back. “Oh, okay.”

Diego scoffs. He then steps forward in front of you all. “Look, you wanna pay your respects? Go ahead. But at least be honest about the kind of man he was.”

“You should stop talking now,” Luther lowly says.

He gets a glare from Diego. “You know, you of all people should be on my side here, Number One.”

“I am warning you.” A cold, neutral fact.

“After everything he did to you? He had to ship you a million miles away—”

“Diego, _stop talking.”_

The snap arrives.

“That’s how much he couldn’t stand the sight of you!”

As soon as Diego jams his fingers in Luther’s chest, the swings start coming. You pull Mom back and elbow Vanya to back up as well. Diego and Luther always went at it more viciously than they did with everyone else.

Pogo, Vanya, and Allison call for them to stop, but Klaus eggs them on with a, “Hit him! Hit him!” He makes it intentionally vague about who he’s cheering on. Pogo, agitated at the desecration of Dad’s memorial service, shakes his head and storms off. Luther and Diego, too involved in their all-out brawl, leave the cries unheeded.

You slip your hand from Mom’s and fold your umbrella. The rain dampens your black dress, your hair. “Mom, could you hold this?” you softly inquire, holding out the handle of the umbrella.

“Of course, Eightie dear.”

Hands now free, you clearly say to Diego and Luther amidst their fight, “Knock it off, you two.”

The sound of your ringing voice causes Five to stop stalking away. “Uh, uh, you should really listen to her!” Klaus shouts over the chaos. “Don’t make Eightie mad!”

You’re not quite _mad—_

Diego dodges one of Luther’s resounding punches, so he instead slams his fist straight into Ben’s statue. It crashes to the ground.

Now you’re mad.

You step in the way of Diego’s knife. It scrapes across your neck and falls aside. But because Diego never knows when to quit, he leaps forward with another knife in hand, heading straight to Luther, who also storms from behind you.

But diffusing fights between Luther and Diego has been engraved in you as deeply as training itself. When the next knife goes the same moment as a punch, you catch the knife in one hand, holding it tight, and twist to lift an arm that collides with Luther’s fist.

Luther, however, has gotten _strong._

The next instant, you’re on the ground, and if you had a normal nose, it would have broken with a crack. Actually, your head would have just split like an egg. Vanya and Allison shout your name.

“Eightie,” Luther exhales, “I’m, I’m, so…”

You toss Diego’s knife aside and prop yourself up. Half your face, shoulder, and chest are smeared with wet leaves and, hey, wow, would you look at that, Dad’s _fucking ashes._

“Yikes,” Klaus hisses. You know it’s bad when he holds no laughter in his voice. “Yikes.”

You push yourself up off the ground. Your nylons have been ripped, and the necklace you wore got sliced off by Diego’s first knife. It lays depressingly in the mud. Vanya had given it to you for Christmas. You wipe off leaves and wet ashes off your face with the back of a sleeve. Hair clings to your forehead.

Diego and Luther receive a withering, scorching glare from you. _“Enough,”_ you say, calm voice a sharp contrast. “That’s enough. Go inside, the both of you.”

Their visible, pitiful wilting is made worse by all the rain.

You give your face one more good wipe and walk back to Mom. “Oh, Eightie,” she coos. “Let’s get you some hot chocolate.”

“I think everyone could use some hot chocolate,” you reply, managing a strained smile. “Come on.”

Allison and Vanya trail behind you and Mom as you head inside. Five, at some point, disappeared.

You expected a rough memorial service. You just never thought you’d be watching Dad’s ashes swirl down the shower drain.


	11. that's nobody's business but the turks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Istanbul (Not Constantinople)"](https://open.spotify.com/track/63vL5oxWrlvaJ0ayNaQnbX?si=CcIYLLmcS-64Etz6nylLxw)

Allison lets out a light laugh when she sees you come into the kitchen. Klaus has his bare feet up on the table with one of his old guitars propped up against him, and Five rabidly searches through shelves and cupboards.

“Don’t,” you say, but it has no bite.

“No, no, it’s—nothing,” she poorly covers. “It’s just, I think, _I think_ those clothes are from the photo shoot we did for Teen Vogue a thousand years go.”

“That makes sense, then, why I look like a poor rendition of Cher from _Clueless.”_

You found the outfit hanging on a long-forgotten hanger in your closet. Because you didn’t want to keep wearing a soaked, Dad-ashed dress and torn nylons, you went the Five route and scrounged something left behind in your old room. Luckily, you had options other than the uniform. You wind up in a white, long-sleeved ribbed turtleneck with a black and white plaid spaghetti-strap dress. Black academy socks come up to beneath your knees, too familiar for comfort but completes the ensemble. You still wear your black canvas sneakers similar to Vanya’s own pair.

Your missing sister has you asking, “Where’s Vanya?”

“Oh, she went home, told me to tell you that,” Klaus says with a finger pointed at you.

“Crap,” you mutter, sidling up to Allison. “I told her just to tell me when she was ready. Then she wouldn’t have to pay for a taxi.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Five says, and for a moment, you think he’s commenting on Vanya’s departure. But as he turns to the table, you see him holding some canister, which you soon recognize is some kind of old coffee press. “An entire square block. Forty-two bedrooms, nineteen bathrooms, but no, not a single drop of coffee.”

He shoves both hands in his pockets.

“Dad hated caffeine,” Allison says back.

“Well, he hated children, too, and he had plenty of us,” Klaus laughs. He holds the guitar tight to him.

“Did Mom make hot chocolate? If not, I can make some,” you offer.

“Ooh, yes, with some of those teeny tiny marshmallows?” Klaus pinches his thumb and forefinger together. “And if you could put a shot of whiskey in there, that’d be _marvelous.”_

“You can go for a minute without whiskey,” you say. Klaus twangs an off-tune guitar string in protest.

“Yeah, a chocolate would be nice,” Five says with all the sneering sarcasm he can muster. “Do I _look_ like a child?”

A silence, then Klaus twangs another string. Five scoffs at all of you. “I’m taking the car.”

“Where are you going?” Klaus asks, uncrossing his legs to take a more inquisitive posture.

“To get a decent cup of coffee.”

“Do you even know how to drive?” Allison says sarcastically.

Five leans forward and pointedly spits, “I know how to do everything.”

“I’ll come with you, if you want,” you say.

“Do I look like I want that?”

Allison and Klaus exchange uncertain glances. It’s natural to them that Five throws his usual barbs at everyone, but so far, he’s aimed his venom particularly at you—which is not natural.

You stare at Five for a second, blink, then start walking away. “I have a sudden hankering for some Griddy’s donuts. I’ll bring a box back for everyone, alright?”

Klaus enthusiastically twangs the guitar, creating several terrible chords. “You know what?” Allison smirks. “I think I could _definitely_ go for some donuts, please and thank you. Guess you’re out of luck, Five. Eightie is on more important business, and she’ll need the car. Although, if you go _with_ her, then you can get your shitty cup of coffee.”

Allison intentionally avoids mentioning that you have your own car parked outside by the front entrance.

Before you’re entirely out-of-earshot, you hear Five make some remark to Allison, then tingling blue flashes next to you. Without glancing at Five, you smile. He walks beside you in silence.

Five, you note, drives like an old man—or someone who never learned to drive in the first place and had to wing it. Hunched toward the steering wheel and reckless. It’s alright. If you get in a wreck, you’ll be fine. You stare out the window in silence. Five irritably turns on the radio to wash it out, but it doesn’t quite do the trick.

When you reach Griddy’s a few minutes later, Five haphazardly parks halfway up onto the curb on the opposite side of the street and hauls himself out. He slams the door behind him, then practically sprints into the shop. You unbuckle yourself, leave the car, and follow behind at your own pace. A man who comes from a tow truck enters the shop about the same time you do, and he holds the glass door open. You smile and thank him.

The bell on the counter rings with more impatience than usual, channeled by Five’s own attitude. You sit on the barstool beside him, not talking about the days where you’d sit on the same stools together, stare at the same menu on the wall, dance to the same music in the jukebox.

Those days are gone, and this Five doesn’t seem to be one for nostalgia.

You tuck away your emotions in the box. It’ll be okay. The sorting is only temporary. You can deal with the pain later.

A waitress in pink comes out from the back. “Sorry,” she says with a tired laugh, “sink was clogged. So, what’ll it be?”

The tow-truck man orders a chocolate éclair.

“Uh huh, sure.” She waves her pen at you two. “Can I get the kids a glass of milk or something?”

Okay, you may not look _old,_ but you’re not _that_ much of a child, and neither is Five.

He bristles beside you and gives the waitress an undeserving saccharine smile. “The kid wants coffee. Black.”

To balance out Five being Five, you smile and say, “And I’ll, um, take a box of dozen donuts. Throw in anything you’d like.”

The waitress chuckles. To the tow truck man, she says, “Cute kids.”

Tow-truck man doesn’t seem to be able to come up with a response, and Five flatly grins. You try your best to appear normal, which isn’t hard sitting beside him. The waitress, whose uniform has “Agnes” scrawled in cursive, points her pen at you. “And cute dress.”

“Thank you.”

While she prepares the orders, Five mutters about this place “turned into a real a shithole” to the tow-truck man. It’s within complete range of Agnes, and while she ignores it, you reach over and pinch Five’s thigh with your nails like you used to when he said unnecessarily rude things. He also ignores it and disturbs tow-truck man even more by talking about “being a kid” when he is obviously a kid right now.

Agnes brings back the orders. Tow-truck man pays for the coffee and the dozen donuts, at least acting like the pretend-father role he’s come into. You thank him, Five asks for an address that tow-truck man knows, and Agnes disappears into the back of the shop.

You stare at the cardboard cover of the donuts. Five is about to take a drink of his sought-after coffee, but he sets it down when the doorbell rings to announce more customers.

From the shuffling of feet from behind you, you mentally count four, maybe six people moving in a trained professional way. Sounds only firearms can make when they’re being carried by experts shift in your ear.

Five takes a glance at you and finds you’re now staring straight ahead, expression reserved. You watch the reflection in the shop’s menu. Shit. So you already know how this is going to go down.

Well, if he had to have anybody with him during this, he’d want it to be you.

“Hmm,” Five grunts, also staring at the Commission assassins from the spherical reflection of the counter bell. “That was fast. I thought I’d have more time before they found me.”

A figure stands behind you, a hefty gun pointed at Five. Another man comes up and presses a cold barrel to your head.

“Okay. So let’s all be professional about this, yeah? On your feet and come with us. They want to talk.”

“I’ve got nothing to say.”

“It doesn’t have to go this way. You think I wanna shoot some kids? Go home with that on my conscience?”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Five hums. He finally looks up at the assassin. “You won’t be going home.”

When Five teleports and slams a butter knife into the assassin’s neck, automatic bullets pound against your head in the ensuing chaos. The force nearly tips you off the stool, but before your shooter can realize that you’re not exactly dead, a bullet ricochets off your skull and straight into his.

He collapses to the ground. You spin on the barstool, elbows propping up against the counter so you can lean back and protect the donuts from any lead or bodily fluids. In the poor fluorescent light, you see that a spatter of blood stains the sleeve of your Teen Vogue outfit.

Great.

Your eyes track Five’s movement as best you can, predicting where he’ll teleport to next, who he’ll kill next. Many of his patterns are still the same from academy training, but a couple times, his violent improvisation surprises you in the way that it comes from new methods, new teachings.

All in all, Five makes quick work of the assassins, just as you expect him to. You didn’t even have to worry about jumping in. When the last ones die, Five reappears, slightly out-of-breath and sweaty but overall unbothered. He rips his academy tie off from around an assassin’s neck and slings it back on.

An assassin suddenly gasps for air, struggling to breathe on the sticky linoleum floor you used to dance on. Five crouches over him and breaks his neck. You know it’s not normal to not react at the sound of vertebrae cracking, but you’ve heard it plenty times before.

Five slumps back onto the barstool beside you. He places what looks to be some sort of tracker in front of him.

“You were followed,” you state, moving to prop your head on a fist. 

“Yeah.” Five shoves back the sleeve of his jacket and extends his arm out on the counter. “Tracking implant. Need to get it out.”

With a knife from one of the dead assassins, Five plunges the blade into his soft skin. You watch, wondering what it feels like, that pain. You’ve only ever derived physical pain from one source, and you don’t think its intensity is very applicable. He groans as fingers dip into arm to yank the tracker out. It’s green and pill-shaped and matches the frequency of the tracker.

Five bitterly smiles at it, like he’s achieved some great victory. You grab napkins from a not shot-up dispenser and pile them onto his bleeding cut. Once he realizes what you’re doing, the smile vanishes. He strains to fully look at you. Luckily, your eyes aren’t staring directly at him, focused only on the injury. Gunpowder residue leaves starburst streaks on your cheek, jaw, forehead, nose. Blood, not your own, spreads like watercolor on the white of your shirt.

If it had been anybody else fired on like that, their head would be nothing but brainy mush. Does this make you realize what kind of life he’s lived while gone? What happened? Where he went? He hopes it does. That way, Five doesn’t have to speak his history out loud or the atrocities he’s committed.

You don’t look at him because you confirm what Five has known for quite some time—you can’t love a killer, a monster.

“There are stitches back home,” you mutter, one of your brows furrowing to create a crease just above your nose. “We need to get this patched up.”

“It’s fine.” Five stands and tugs his sleeve back down with the napkins still soaking up blood. “Come on, we gotta to get out of here.”

You grab the box of donuts and follow him back outside. He tosses the tracker in a street puddle, then straightens his tie. You, however, get into the driver’s seat of the car before he can. Five goes to protest, but you close the door. He has to retract his good arm to avoid any crunched fingers.

“Chop, chop,” you say, muffled from the glass and metal between you.

But you stare directly at Five through the car window and smile without reservation, without fear, without disgust.

He almost smiles back—

Five sees you half-buried beneath rubble, smiling, blood trickling from your mouth, smiling, whispering his name, whispering how you had always knew he’d come back, whispering about Vanya, about the end, about dancing, whispering until you could not whisper anymore with glass for eyes.

The smile vanishes before it can form.

Still, Five gets in on the other side. You toss the box of donuts onto his lap and start the engine.

The bump of the curb the tire bounces off of jostles the both of you, and you drive back to the manor in a different kind of silence from the one on your way to Griddy’s.


	12. you say i'm familiar, cold to touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["(Feels Like) Heaven"](https://open.spotify.com/track/3bkcq1VrFlcoqa04VBs4J8?si=qkv1wVNgTRO6CGH16bHcIw)

“Yeah, I’m sorry. Five is…in a predicament. No, it’s not bad right now, but I’ll let you know if anything changes. Will you be okay for the night? Okay. Call me if you need anything. I should be back tomorrow by the time your lessons end. I _did_ buy some of those donuts from Griddy’s—yeah, yeah, I know, right? It’s crazy. So I’ll bring some for you when I get home. Yeah. Okay. Love you. I’ll tell him you said that. Okay. Night, Vanya. Bye bye.”

The phone clicks. You stand there for a moment after, take a breath, stare at the phone’s dial for a little too long, then head to the infirmary.

Five slips back to the same place you’re heading to not let you notice he listened to the conversation from around the corner.

-

“You’re not bad at this,” Five remarks while he watches you stitch up the knife wound in his arm.

“Mm.” Your bare knees knock together, and you’re hunched forward just enough to concentrate on the stitching but not too close so your head doesn’t block out the infirmary light. It’s quiet in the mansion, but the infirmary holds a special type of silence, silence that mingles with your soft, even breaths and Five’s oddly pounding heart. “Diego always needs sewing up. He gets more hurt when I’m not with him, but he’s smart enough to show up at Vanya’s and my door later on. I’m not used to working on a conscious patient; he usually passes out at the first sign of a needle.”

“So, it’s true.” Five flashes a small smirk you don’t see. “You two hunt perverts together.”

“You read the book in the future?”

“I did. You wear a mask like Diego?”

You breathe a faint laugh. “I’m happy that question has plagued you for decades. And no. A mask would give me away, no matter how much Diego bugs me about it. Looking like a teenager has its uses. You’ll…get used to the contrast between body and mind. It becomes easier to manage.”

“Have you aged at all?”

“A tiny bit, from what the hair samples Pogo inspected told us. But not much. We’ll have to see if my internal organs keep their youth the same way my outward appearance does.”

You dab away some blood with gauze held by sterilized tongs, then continue the work. The pain of being stitched is very familiar to Five by now, so he doesn’t make a noise while a needle goes back and forth between his ripped skin.

“Since you read the book,” you go on, “what did you think of it?”

Thread tugs, more wound closes. 

“Vanya was ballsy for writing it. I mean, she was right about a lot of things. We could be real pieces of shit to her.” Five murmurs, “Except you.”

“Even I wasn’t perfect,” you respond.

“No, but you were her editor, so she trusted you enough to read what she wrote without judgement. You still work as one?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you always liked that stuff. Makes sense you’d be good at it.”

“Thanks.”

“From what I read, seems like you didn’t have that bad of a life.”

“No, hasn’t been bad.” You snip the thread and tie it off. Leaning back, Five can’t hide from your gaze. It pins him, traps him. His mouth goes dry as welling panic sets in. “But it could have been better.”

The silence cracks between the two of you. “Five,” you say, and it sounds so similar to how you said it when you were dying, in rubble and flame and ash.

“Thanks for the patchwork—”

“Stop it. You’re running.”

“I am not.”

“You are. You’ve been running the moment you fell through that portal. From me, from everyone. Stop. Stop, and start talking.”

He glares at you. Meanwhile, you begin putting the medical supplies away and discarding soiled gauzes, so though you feel it pierce your back, you decline the opportunity to glare in return, thus putting you at an emotional advantage.

“Tell me. Now.”

The quiet command has only become more perfected over the years, and it shatters Five’s already wavering resolve. By the time your gaze falls back on him, idly tugging off latex gloves, he hangs his head and tries to breathe through a crumpling heart.

Five’s hands grip the metal edge of the single operating table he sits on. His feet, which once would have reached the checkered floor, hang a few inches above the ground.

“The apocalypse is in eight days.”

You go still. Five casts his gaze up to the unfriendly lights hanging from the ceiling.

“We have eight days to save the world from Vanya.”

“Is that what you saw?” you ask, too low and too neutral, trying to counteract the instinct of being swallowed up by shock and disbelief.

Five nods once, though it looks more like a physical, invisible weight pushes on the back of his head.

“I landed in the future eight days from now, in the aftermath. There was nobody…nobody left. You were all dead, the mansion nothing but rubble, and…”

“I died?”

The notion seems foreign to you.

“You did. You were— _fuck_.” The moment Five senses his throat start to close up, he relies on all the anger inside him to mar the old grief, which wants to be uncovered, to resurface, to cause him more pain.

He lurches up onto feet he refuses to acknowledge are unsteady. “You _died.”_ Five lashes his words at you like you’re the one responsible for this—this—this _shit_ inside him. Because you are. Because he should have been there. Because he’s here now and it doesn’t change the horror of what he saw. “You died. I had to watch you die, and then I buried your body alongside everyone else’s.”

He scoffs. It’s loud and echoing. “Vanya’s body, of course, probably disintegrated in whatever force she used to destroy the world. I couldn’t find her.”

At the mention of Vanya, the shield of your expression rattles. Five immediately catches it. “You know something, don’t you? You know something about Vanya. Our dear little powerless, ordinary Vanya.”

“She’s never been ordinary,” you softly correct.

“No, and I guess it’s something you saw while the rest of us didn’t, oh-so-observant Eightie.” Five itches to sneer, but he keeps his tone on the brink instead of a complete plunge. “Now, tell me _exactly_ what you know.”

Your sigh, pensive. “Vanya’s song,” you eventually mutter after an unbearable amount of silence.

“What?”

“Vanya’s song—she used to have a song in her. Then, one day, after she came back from being really sick, it was…it was gone. I asked Dad about it, but he never gave me an answer, of course.”

“Wait, what even _is_ this about a song? She sang something?”

“No, no, it’s…” You wave a hand as you try to come up with the right words. _“The song._ Everyone has it. Places have it. Emotions have it. The silence is its—” Fingers splay by your head. You hate sifting through the box unprepared. “Its counterpart—no. Its…other. I hear, heard it a lot when I was younger. Vanya’s song was strong, really strong. I could hear it all the way down the hall. Then, then after it disappeared, I…kind of let it slide because I had no idea how to explain it to her or you or Dad or even myself. But.”

You stop, lips parted. Five leans toward you, magnetized by your words, his soul almost hanging off the little flip on the lowercase t that your voice danced off of.

“The incident,” you utter, eyes going wide.

“The incident?” Five repeats. You run a hand over your stomach, and it stops over your lower abdomen. His gut twists. The incident. “What…happened during the incident other than you almost dying?”

“No, Five, that’s just it. I _was_ going to die. It’s all so, so muddled and hazy, but remember how I held onto Vanya’s hand?”

He nods. “You wouldn’t let go. Burned her because your light was so hot. I remember.”

“Well, there was this…this _instant_ where I felt her song, deep, deep from within.” You give a small, disbelieving laugh. “I thought it was all in my head, a figment created by the pain. But Vanya’s song, that power inside her, it—saved me. Jumpstarted my powers or, or calmed them. I’m not sure which.”

“How come you never told me this?”

He has the audacity to sound blameful. “Like I said,” you flatly remind, “I didn’t think it was real in the first place. And then, as time went on, it faded.” But you’re glad you kept it in the box, like a photo at the bottom of other memories and pains and joys and moments. “I remember, though.”

“If Vanya has powers,” Five says, starting to pace, “then why would Dad have them suppressed? Why wouldn’t _she_ remember?”

As soon as he poses the questions, your eyes both snap to each other in realization. You simultaneously say, “Allison.”

“Dad must have…rumored Vanya through Allison,” you continue, starting to walk in any direction like Five. The two of you slowly float around each other, renewing a dance neither of you have danced in decades, a dance that comes naturally. “He had to have _feared_ her powers. But what, what suppresses them?”

“The pills,” Five concludes. “She’s been taking them for as long as I can remember, but all we’ve ever known is that they’re supposed to help with her nerves. If her nerves are tied to emotion—and she must have felt a lot when you almost died—then those pills would have stifled any strong feelings. Still do.”

You nod. A cold pit begins to form in your stomach. It feels like how Ben described the Horror emerging from him: hideous but inevitable.

“Leave it to Dad to lock away something too troublesome to entertain rather than _helping,”_ you say. Five likes hearing the disgust that emerges in your tone when you speak about Dad. The sight, the sound helps Five imagine how you looked when you said those things to him at Ben’s funeral. “But, then, _then_ what would have made her not only get off her pills to access those powers, but also release something so terrible that it caused her to destroy the entire world?”

Five gives you a bitter look heightened by his mirthless smirk. “Her boyfriend.”

You frown. “Vanya doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

“Not yet she doesn’t. But you said before…before you died, you said her boyfriend was the reason. A catalyst, maybe? Or he forces her into it? I’ve never been sure. Delores and I speculated for decades as to what role he played.”

“Who’s Delores? I thought you said you were alone.”

“I was…mostly.” Five waves you off impatiently, but you hang onto the name and information for later. “Anyway, Vanya having no boyfriend means that within eight days, she _will_ have a boyfriend, which marks off the countdown to the apocalypse. Got any ideas as to who it might be? You live with her after all.”

“No. Vanya doesn’t date. And I have the body of a teenager but the mind of a thirty-year-old, so my pickings are slim. Our love lives aren’t a focused topic.”

“Well, better put it on the agenda, because if she has no _boyfriend,_ then there is no _apocalypse.”_

Five straightens his tie. “Let’s go talk to her.”

“Vanya?”

“Yeah, why not? We’ve got the time. Eight days’ worth, to be exact.”

“Don’t make me list out why that’s not the best idea right now. I’m tired.”

“Fine, fine,” he concedes. “Tomorrow, then.”

 _“Tomorrow,_ we’re going to wrangle the rest of our dear family to tell them about Vanya and what’s about to happen.”

“Okay, if I can’t act on my bad ideas, neither can you.”

“For somebody who risked so much to jump back in time for his family, you sure don’t trust any of us.”

_Us._

“Have you seen them? They can’t be trusted with anything. No, no, we have to solve this ourselves—”

“No, Five. We need to _protect_ Vanya. Together. If we’re going up against the power you described, then it’ll take all of us to change the future.”

Five stares at you while you talk. Despair mingled with resign etches across his too-young, too-old face. The smile he flashes at you bears a heavy sadness to it.

“That’s what you said, you know. ‘Protect Vanya.’ Also said you all weren’t strong enough to do it, though. So you must have brought everyone together at some point to try the same thing, except it didn’t work.”

“But you’re back, now,” you smoothly respond. What’s left of Five’s numbed, tainted heart stings at the simple truth you use to speak. “It’ll be different.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, but it’s more than a sigh, more than a confession, more that you can’t untangle in the mess of the person who stands before you in an Umbrella Academy uniform. “You said that, too.”


	13. see my future coming like the rising of the tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Lost Woman"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0xpXLOs75M21CYFkrer5cG?si=jzm5LftyQXeofhnxe-rcGQ)

“Hi, Patch. I called the gym, Gus said he wasn’t there. He at the station?” You snort. “Oh, you’re looking right _at_ him. Got it. Uh huh. Yeah. Sounds about right. Well, before you get done chewing him out, can you tell him to come back to the mansion? We’ve made some discoveries that I think would be of interest to him.” A light laugh. “That’s what I tell him—and hey, real quick, could you tell Diego to pick up six cups of coffee on his way to the house? Make sure one is black. Alright. Thanks, detective. I’ll talk to you later.”

The moment you hang up the phone, a whine grows from one of the couches until it’s a full-blown wail. “It’s too early for _phone calls!”_ Klaus shouts. He sits upright, bedraggled head popping into view, and gives you a post-drugged glare. “And don’t you know it’s bad _decorum_ to talk to our brother’s ex?”

“Jesus Christ,” comes Five’s voice. Suddenly present and dressed in a new uniform unspotted by blood, he grimaces at the sight of Klaus, who puts both hands over his nipples protectively. “What ditch did you get dragged from?”

“Can it on the insults, alright? I have had a very, _very_ tough night. Grieving, crying, um, grieving. Terrible all around.”

“Yeah, well, you can stay for breakfast,” you say, walking over and picking up Klaus’ discarded clothes. “Ben, when was the last time he had a regular breakfast?”

A shimmer of blue-gold light pulses six times. You disapprovingly hum. Klaus loudly gasps. “That is _not_ true! I had, I had breakfast yesterday—wait, no. The day before at least!”

Five watches the exchange with wide eyes. “Wait,” he drawls lowly, “you can see _and_ talk to Ben, Klaus? He’s here?”

Klaus languidly stretches and stands. You see that he’s wearing only colorful underwear. Five makes another disgusted face. “No, not at all, not at all. Ben who? Never heard of him—that is a _rude_ gesture.”

“And you,” Five goes on, hopping to you, “Ben can interact with you?”

“He affects the light,” you reply. “I can’t feel or hear or see him. But we find ways to communicate. Isn’t that right?” You raise a hand, and a moment later, the same kind of multi-colored light bursts on your hand.

“Interesting.” Five clicks his tongue. “At least one other responsible sibling has been here all along. Must be miserable watching Klaus waste his life, though.”

“I resent that!” Klaus exclaims. “Eightie, gimme my clothes, I’m indecent.”

“Alright, but _stay_ for a little while, okay? We need to talk with the family.” You hand Klaus back what he calls clothes.

“Ugh, that’s just _code_ for ‘family meeting,’ and look at how the last one went.”

“Yeah, well, buckle in, ‘cause it ain’t about to get any sweeter,” Five puts with a sharp smile. Klaus mimics buckling himself up.

“Yes, sir! I—”

_“Ahem.”_

You all turn to Pogo, who snuck into the large room while you were talking with each other. “My apologies for interrupting you children, but something has come to my attention. Items from your father’s office have gone missing. In particular, an ornate box with pearl inlay.”

Five, you, and probably Ben look to Klaus like Pogo does. He pulls up too-tight leather pants. “Really?” he innocently asks.

“Really.”

“No, no, no. No idea. Sorry.”

Five chuckles and shakes his head at your brother’s _abominable_ lie. You sigh. “Klaus.”

“Wh—what, Eightie? I have no idea, honestly. Honestly.” Klaus throws his hands up, HELLO and GOODBYE flashing.

The two-pulse light on your shoulder indicates otherwise. If Klaus had been telling the truth, Ben would have only lit you up once. As a result, the empty spot beside you gets a panicked glare from him.

“The dummy sold it, probably,” Five surmises with an amused expression. Klaus makes several strangled noises, which doesn’t make his case any better.

Five puts his hands in his pockets and suddenly turns to Pogo. “But, if I may ask, why was the box important?”

“The contents of that box are… _priceless,”_ Pogo explains vehemently. To Klaus, he says with succinct pointedness, “Were they to find their way back to the office, whoever took it would be absolved of any blame or consequences.”

“Ya see,” Five goes on, “I didn’t think Dad to be the _nostalgic_ type who kept photos of his precious family and our drawings depicting him dying in various, colorful ways. So, to me—and correct me if I’m wrong, Pogo—it seems the contents are priceless, as you put it, because it contains _information_. Information on us. All of us. Including Vanya.”

Pogo shifts. His cane taps against the floor. Klaus tosses his gaze between you, Pogo, and Five. It especially concerns him when he sees you’ve put on a reserved expression. You only ever do that when you’re trying to hide the bad things coming up in you. Little Eightie, the shield, shielding herself from her own feelings, shielding others, too.

“Wait,” Klaus mutters, but it’s loud in the silence. “What about Vanya? Vanya. Why, why would the information be important?”

“Because I _think_ Pogo here has been hiding something for Dad for a very, very long time.” Five approaches Pogo, who stands firm, but he’s never been one for direct confrontation, especially in Five’s vitriolic form. “Hiding something from us.”

The moment Pogo glances away, Five snorts. “Told ya so,” he flippantly says to you.

Your conversation about the apocalypse, Vanya, her power’s effect on your, Dad, and everything in between had gone long into the night. In the end, you had fallen asleep on your old bed with Five scuffing familiar tracks into the hardwood floor where he paced and postulated. You both concluded that Pogo had to have some knowledge. He was Dad’s right hand, and he would have carried out orders despite the conflict it gave him.

“I’m missing something here,” Klaus states, willfully being ignorant of the tension. “Something important—aw, did I miss a family meeting _before_ this one and _after_ Luther broke poor Ben’s head off and made Eightie snort Dad’s ashes?”

You love Klaus, you really do, but you have learned when it’s okay to ignore him.

Stepping to Pogo in a much more approachable fashion than Five, you say, “Pogo, we…we need your help. More importantly, _Vanya_ needs your help. She doesn’t realize it yet, but if we don’t do anything soon, it’ll be too late, and I think she’ll unleash whatever it is Dad was afraid of. Five saw the wake of it.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t good.” Five moves from you and Pogo to pretend his interest has been drawn to something in a display cabinet.

“I…forgive me, Eight, but I do not wish to go against your father’s orders, even in death.”

“Pogo, please.”

Five, Klaus, and Ben recognize the soft turn in your voice, the one that got you whatever you wanted, almost as effective as Allison’s rumoring. You rarely used it, like you were aware of its sheer power, but combined with your troubled, sincere, youthful face, Pogo can’t fight against it.

He bows his head for a moment, sighs, and meets you again. “Very well. But…allow me time to prepare. There is much to discuss.”

“Of course.” You bend down and wrap Pogo up in a hug. He pats your back. There is still warmth in the touch, which you’re grateful to sense. You had worried…

Well. You always worry.

After Pogo retreats back to his chamber, you turn to Five, who has kept his keen attention on the cabinet. In the cabinet’s glass, he watches your reflection. To turn back and face the true version of your demeanor means certain death, so he stays put.

“You didn’t have to be mean like that,” you say.

“It’s Five,” Klaus almost defends, uncertain whose side to take because he _literally_ had no idea what is going on—but he definitely understands it isn’t good. “He’s always mean. It’s a personality trait, that extra salt.” He adds a weak laugh when you don’t change or concede.

“I’m trying to save the world,” Five states. He can’t even keep staring at your reflection, so he moves to examine some delicately-painted plate.

“Then act like it.”

You walk away to the kitchen. At the promise of food, Klaus tip-toes along after you, hissing to Ben about _that_ being super awkward.

When he’s alone, Five’s head bumps into the glass of the cabinet. The door shakes. To himself, he murmurs, “I need some damn coffee.”

-

“What’s this about information?” Diego asks. He storms into the kitchen where you prepare breakfast with Mom. Klaus nurses a glass of orange juice, Allison yawns the morning off, and Luther, for some reason, looks more dour than usual. “And don’t _fucking_ call Patch asking for me!”

“Language, Diego,” Mom chimes. He falters; Mom has always been the one to directly turn his boil into a simmer.

“Sorry, Mom.”

For all his huffing, Diego slides two cup carriers holding six to-go coffees onto the kitchen table. Allison makes a pleased noise and takes one. She intentionally avoids the one with “Black” written in bold sharpie on it.

“Ooh, goodie,” Klaus says. He takes a coffee. You grab one yourself.

“I don’t drink that stuff,” Luther comments. Without missing a beat, Klaus snatches up another cup and alternates between drinking from each one.

“Why were you at the police station?” you ask.

“You wound up at the police station?” Allison laughs. “Get caught, Mister Vigilante?”

Diego scowls. “For your information, good ol’ Griddy’s got shot up last night. Multiple dead, all professional hitmen from what it looked like. I _checked_ it out, tried to get a follow-up.”

“Mm, were you flashing around a fake badge again?” smirks Allison. The sarcastic eye-roll from him provides a wordless answer.

You hum against the coffee cup, a little guilty. “You shoulda just asked me about it,” you say. “I was there.”

Diego sputters, and it sharply garners attention from the rest of your siblings. _“What?”_ he snarls.

“You were there? Why? What happened?” Luther questions over Diego, which results in the two glaring at each other.

You shrug. The white, short-sleeved linen of your school uniform shifts in your periphery. With your Vogue outfit in need of a wash and your reluctance to wear the funeral dress Mom cleaned for you, the only option left in your childhood closet was academy clothes. You don’t wear the tie, vest, or blazer, but you have on the same pleated, plaid skirt and knee-high socks.

“Five needed coffee. I got donuts.” You point to the box on the counter. Klaus gravitates toward them, and Allison takes a special interest in the contents of the box as well. “Then men came after Five. He killed them all.”

 _“Five_ killed them?” Diego repeats incredulously, but not because he’s shocked that Five is capable of murder. “Who were they?”

Another shrug. “Assassins of some sort.”

“They’re from the Commission,” comes Five’s clarification. He strides into the kitchen and snatches up the black coffee reserved for him. “Time-traveling assassins meant to preserve the timeline. I worked for them. Worked. Past tense. So they sent people after me. Now they don’t work for the Commission anymore, either.”

The explanation, so simple yet profoundly complex, dumbfounds everyone for a moment. You take another drink of coffee to let the words sink in.

“Okay— _what?”_ Luther spits out.

Five waves you all off irritably. “We’ll get to it later. There’s more important things to talk about.”

“Then it sounds like you need brain power for the day,” Mom cheerfully says. She begins plating up hash browns, fried eggs, and bacon, but she shapes the food so the hash browns are hair, the eggs are eyes, and the bacon makes up a smile. “Eat up!”

“Thanks, Mom,” you synchronously chime—an unbroken habit.

“Will those assassins be after you again?” Diego follow up through a mouthful of bacon. “Will they come to the house? Is Mom in danger?”

“Don’t know, but I will tell you that there is _a lot_ worse than those men coming our way. More than your little perpetually-concussed head can even begin to fathom.” Five then guzzles more of his coffee, but he keeps his slightly manic eyes glued on Diego while he does.

Of course, it only gets a scowl from Diego. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And you look ridiculous in that get-up.”

“I think he looks _fabulous,”_ Klaus flippantly says. He comes to Diego’s aid in his own way. “Like a sexy background minion on _Charlie’s Angels.”_

Allison snorts her eggs. Diego gives Klaus a flat stare.

You can almost hear the song at the table as memory of spending time with everyone in the past like this creeps inside your skull. But really, you haven’t heard any songs from anyone or anything in a long time. Just silence.

But Five seems to be enjoying himself, as reluctant as he makes himself out to be. You’re glad. Glad he can finally continue making memories with those he loves again. Glad he can _see_ the memories being made right in front of him instead of clinging to ones he never thought he’d have to hang onto at all.

You wish you can tell them to keep this moment between you all close, this simple time spent eating breakfast and drinking coffee and making digs at each other, because what will come after may dash any chances of having something like this again for a time.

The plan is to have another smiley breakfast again after you’ve saved Vanya and saved the world, though, so you keep things to yourself.

Still, you worry. 


	14. there's such a chill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Exit Music (for a Film)"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4Na0siMtWOW9pJoWJ1Ponv?si=MPAyZYJiSrqPza8UnY69Qg)

The Hargreeves children, aside from the sole missing one, sit in grave fashion.

“Well, count me in for a drink,” Klaus announces, but there’s no wind to his words. When he gets up, it seems pained.

Five and you explained what you had gone over the night before to them, and with Pogo’s supplemental old surveillance videos showing a tiny Vanya wielding powers, it leaves little to question, little to doubt.

The apocalypse is in seven days, and Vanya will cause it.

“Whoever her boyfriend is, will be,” Five had said while he pulled out a glass eye, “I imagine he might have this color of brown. Maybe he already has a fake eye. Maybe he gets one. Delores and I never could make a sound conclusion. But Luther was holding it when I found all of you.”

When you went to search for Dad’s book Klaus had thrown away from the box he stole, you found the dumpster filled with trash but no book, no loose notes.

“Somebody took it,” Luther surmised. “That’s the only thing I can think of to explain why it’s gone.”

“And if somebody has information on Vanya’s powers,” Diego added somberly, arms crossed, “it means they can potentially use it to their advantage. Use it against her.”

“Use it against us, too,” you finished.

While Klaus shakes together some drink in the background, Allison says, “Well—I think we should go over there right now. What if she’s already in trouble? The sooner we get to her, the better our chances of stopping the apocalypse.”

Her eyes are still red-rimmed, though she can finally talk without her voice trembling. She remembers being very young, being very young and rumoring Vanya to think she’s ordinary. Pogo verifies this truth.

“Yeah, springing the whole, ‘Hey, Vanya, guess what, you have powers that Dad forced you to forget, and oh, while we’re at it, you’re gonna cause the end of the world!’ tactic has _always_ gone over well,” Diego sarcastically replies.

“Do you have a better idea?” Allison snaps.

“We need to take a careful approach to this,” Diego says, and Five nods. He stands, hands dipping into his pockets.

“For once, I agree with Diego.”

“Wow, something more unbelievable than the apocalypse,” Allison scoffs.

“I can’t believe Dad would do something like this,” Luther mutters, not for the first time and not for the last time. Out of all of you, Dad’s deeds have always been justified to Luther, and while he initially argued in favor of Dad’s decision, the odds stacked against his logic, which soon crashed into his entire perspective of the world.

“Dad tried to eliminate her as a threat before she even was one,” you say. Without realizing it, your hand settles on your lower abdomen. Everyone knows it’s a tick of yours, like you’re trying to rub away some phantom pain. “But really, all that did was add potency to the threat. Now, she won’t be able to control her powers once they awaken, which amplifies the possibility of the apocalypse. Tossed in with _more_ emotional trauma, then we have a really difficult situation before us. We can’t treat her like a bomb. Not like Dad.”

“So, again, a careful approach,” Diego summarizes.

“Or not!” Klaus calls from the bar. “Bombs are tip-toed around!”

“Neither are they directly stepped on,” Luther counters.

“That’s a land mine,” says Diego.

Luther _tsks._ “Land mines are still a type of bomb.”

“All land mines are bombs, but not all bombs are land mines.”

“That doesn’t make any sense—”

Five groans. “Will you both shut up? Land mine, bomb, doesn’t matter! What _matters_ is how we’re going to deal with Vanya, her boyfriend, and _the end of the goddamn world.”_

He snaps his fingers at you and Allison. “You two, take Klaus and go check on Vanya at her apartment.” He then points to Luther and Diego. “And you idiots, you’re coming with me. I want to follow up on the eye lead.”

-

The three of you are quiet as you head to the apartment. Allison stares out the window in the passenger’s seat. Klaus sprawls out in the back, carefree façade dropped.

“I hate this,” Allison confesses. “I hate this so much.”

From the back comes an, “Mm hm.”

“And—” She straightens, looking to you, “what the hell is with Five and this time traveling assassin thing?”

“I don’t have much to go off of,” you reply. Klaus isn’t buckled in the backseat, and it worries you. If you get in a wreck, he’ll be hurt. “Five clammed up about it. But…and I’m just guessing here, but I think it has something to do with how he got out of the apocalypse. Do you remember what it looked like on the other side of the portal when he first showed up again?”

“Nope,” Klaus says.

“I was kinda distracted with the bigger problem.” Allison brushes a curl from her face and brings the visor down to check her appearance in the mirror. “You must have seen something, though. What was it?”

“Looked green, grassy. The apocalypse Five described wasn’t either of those. I saw a white-picket fence, too. Also, he came through wearing a suit—which must have been nice before the portal tore it up. I don’t think the apocalypse had a functioning Men’s Warehouse.”

Klaus’ exhale seems to be a weak laugh. From the rearview mirror, you watch him scrunch his eyes shut and place a hand to head. Withdrawals meant he not only had to suffer the physical side-effects but the mental ones as well, primarily the return of seeing and hearing the dead.

“So, even though he was in the apocalypse for the long time,” Allison carefully speaks, “it wasn’t the place he jumped from.”

“No. And, and when I watched him take out those assassins, I saw he had picked up some new moves, too, new methods Dad never taught us in training.” You tap your fingers on the steering wheel. “One of the assassins said to him that he just wanted to take him back, that _they_ wanted to talk. If the same time-traveling assassins wanted Five to come back with them, then it means things definitely did not end well with him and the Commission."

“You’re so smart, Eightie,” Klaus sighs. He presses his forehead to the window to cool his sweating head. “I wish…I was smart…as you.”

Allison twists in her seat. “Hey, are you alright?” She doesn’t forget the rehab band still tacked to his wrist.

“Nooo,” he pitifully whines. “Hey, can we make a quick stop? I just need some, uh, some stuff. I—oh, wait!” Klaus reaches into the pocket of his leather pants to grab something, but when he doesn’t find it, he feels the other. It’s vacant as well. Klaus begins to pat himself down in a slightly shaking, frenzied manner.

“Looking for these?”

You hold up a tiny plastic bags of drugs up between your fingers. Klaus goes to rip them away from you with lightning speed, but you toss them into Allison’s lap before he can grab the bag. Without missing a beat, she rolls down the window and chucks the drugs out.

“No, no, no! Why did you _do that?”_

Although the desperation in Klaus’ voice makes you frown with worry, you say, “Hey, you need to be sober for this. Whatever happens, we need you with us. All of you. I’m sorry.”

Klaus pounds his head against the back of your headrest in defeat. “So…mean,” he whispers painedly. Then, a second later, he whirls to the empty spot beside him and snaps, “Yeah, well, you don’t have to deal with what _I_ do, alright? So? I mean—yeah, but—of course I care about her! Shut up, just shut up.”

Allison gives you a majorly concerned look. “He sees Ben,” you say under your breath. Shock freezes her face.

“Are you serious?” she hisses back. Your conversation goes unnoticed by Klaus, who’s still arguing. “And you never _told_ me?”

You shake your head apologetically. “It comes…sporadically. Klaus has to be uninhibited by substances. He doesn’t like talking about it, either—”

“No, fuck _you!”_

Allison’s seatbelt sharply clacks as she spins around again to Klaus and now Ben. “Klaus, Ben has been with us this _whole_ time? What the fuck?”

“Wh—aw, come on, Eightie! Shit! Mother fu—of _course_ I want you to be with us, but—”

You focus on driving and the music on the radio. It’s the closest thing to a song you’ll hear these days.

-

Vanya is pleasantly surprised to see Allison and Klaus with you. Allison, the actress, keeps things casual and makes genuine conversation without displaying any anxiety.

Klaus, of course, ruins Allison’s veiled investigation by loudly asking, “So, Vanny, have you been, uh, seeing anyone lately? Got a special _someone?”_

Allison discreetly hides a choke. The dish you’re currently scrubbing almost slips from your hand. Both of you shoot Klaus a glare, which Vanya fortunately doesn’t see.

She awkwardly laughs. “Um, no? Why, why would you think that?”

“Just tryin’ ta learn more about you! Is that so bad?”

“…I suppose not. But, uh, no. No, I don’t. People don’t exactly see me as…special enough material to date.”

Allison takes interest in her clasped hands—an effort to keep herself together, to not break down again with the reminder that she made Vanya believe she wasn’t special. But it was Dad’s fault. You try to also remind her of that with the look you give her.

“Well,” Klaus says, taking the admission in better stride than Allison, “tell us if anything changes, alright? I wanna reconnect—Eightie is making me go clean, you know, so I’ll be around a _lot_ more.”

“Eightie has tried making you go clean for over a decade,” Vanya reminds teasingly. “But if you’re really going to do it, this time, then you have my support.”

Klaus blows her a kiss. With the question of the boyfriend confirmed—meaning _no boyfriend_ yet—you four move onto other topics and talk for a long time. Vanya’s auditioning again for first chair, you have another editing project coming up, Allison accepted going to her court-mandated therapy to see Claire again, and Klaus found this _amazing_ food truck with a vegan burger you wouldn’t believe.

Then three forty-five comes around—four hours flew by when you all just started talking—and Vanya announces that she has a lesson with a new student at four. You tell her you’ll be back after five, then go to drop Allison and Klaus off at the house.

When you get back, you’re greeted with a scowling Five inches away from your face.

“Where _were_ you?” he snarls.

“Talking to Vanya,” you respond, brushing past him. “No luck on any boyfriend, so we just talked before she had a lesson.”

“And you didn’t think to _call?”_ He follows on your heels.

“To be fair,” Klaus cuts in, “it was a _really_ nice talk.”

“I don’t care!” Five shouts. It echoes in the large house. “If you didn’t find the information we need, then you should have come back right away. Not wasted time!”

“Wow, okay,” says Allison. She tosses her blonde curls over a shoulder. “Like _that_ wouldn’t have been suspicious at all. And aren’t we supposed to be taking care of Vanya instead of ignoring her? _Talking_ improves people’s moods, and she was definitely happier by the time we left.”

When you walk into the sitting room, you see Diego and Luther both nursing wounds. “Don’t tell me,” you sigh.

“Luther started it,” Diego lamely mutters.

Worry. Worry, worry rises up in you, worry you had blissfully forgotten for a few hours, worry over Diego and Luther and their relationship, worry over Vanya and being away from her, worry over Klaus and his withdrawals, worry over the future, worry over—

“Well, the fake eye lead was a bust!” Five yells. “And these nincompoops made _any_ chances of me going back there with one of you to try again impossible! Ya know…” The petulance grates Five’s throat. “Part of me wants to believe that none of you even have a _concept_ of time—time we’re running out of!”

“We will do more searching tomorrow,” you say back. “It’ll be okay, Five.”

The assurance only darkens his demeanor, clouding it with bitterness.

“I’m starting to see why none of you could stop the end of the world.”

A silence, the silence, silence and no song, curls through the air. Five’s admission crafted it into being, and now it can never be taken back, never be completely destroyed, like matter.

Five did not look away from you when he spoke. It comes with a price, he finds. Your expression shifts, shields, and the fact that you hold nothing at all to use in retaliation against him is worse than anger, than disappointment, than sadness, because it means Five is not worth seeing it—not worth _your_ time.

And your eyes are dry.

In the silence, you walk away from Five and go to your old bedroom. The worry is going to spill over, spill over and make you hurt and if you hurt there’s pain and pain means more pain and you _can’t_ feel pain and you have to get out of view from everyone.

It needs to go into the box for now.

“Great job, Five. Real great.” Diego stands up. A knife flicks back into his holster.

“Jesus.” Allison shakes her head. “I honestly sometimes cannot understand how she ever put up with you.”

Klaus wanders to the bar. “Ya know, I think you’re _kinda_ missing the bigger picture here, little ol’ Five.”

Five’s fists clench. “And what,” he spits with all the venom he can muster, “is _that?”_

“Oh…” Klaus splays a hand in the air grandly. “Just that it’s Eightie keeping us together for this, not you. She’s always kept us together, bless her poor, weary soul, while you’ve been fucking around in the apocalypse and god knows where else. Lose her and, well…” He takes a swig of liquor. “You’ll probably lose the rest of us, too.”

Diego leaves first, then Luther. Allison trails behind. Klaus, with an entire bottle of whiskey tucked under an arm, saunters out last, leaving Five to stand solitary in the sitting room.

He stomps to the wall and kicks his foot into stone. Again and again, stifling shouts, until he’s breathless and hollow and ashamed.


	15. tonight, i'm gonna have myself a real good time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Don't Stop Me Now"](https://open.spotify.com/track/7hQJA50XrCWABAu5v6QZ4i?si=6ANswvy8ShOaxwbXWQsP5A)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a day...treat yourself

Dad sunk you to the bottom of the ocean three more times during your time at the Umbrella Academy, each deeper than the previous. It could not be so deep that the oxygen tank strapped to your back would snap under the pressure, but just barely.

You remember watching the light fade from the ocean, shimmering, dissipating until you could only hear the heartbeat in your ears. Then, when the iron ball finally found sand to settle on, you stopped hearing even your heart, for it was replaced with silence.

Silence, silence, silence. It beckons you.

On the final time you drifted in the watery pitch, your hand wrapped around the oxygen mouthpiece. If you removed it, you would never put it back in.

When you fear the pain will become too much, you think of the black ocean, the nothing, and it calms you. The escape prevents your heart from aching. Should your heart ache too much, should you feel too much, your body could decide that it’s a threat and needs to be removed.

It’s a silly fear, but you don’t like fathoming what would happen if it were true.

The chair you sit on faces the filmy window. You sit completely still, hands clasped in front of you, ankles crossed, and stare outside. You think of the silence, the deep, and begin boxing away all the hurts so they cannot harm you.

You lose track of Five’s precious time. Twilight plunges the room blue. Completely still, completely nothing, completely silent. The pain that may have been recedes. You are safe from it.

No, not safe. Not really. But sheltered from it. You have to be your own shield, as well as theirs. There is nobody else but you to do the job. And it’s okay. You carry the burden without resentment.

The silence envelops you, and your eyes begin to drift shut. Not from exhaustion, but relief, relief and the innate nothing the silence brings. You want to stay in it, just for a little longer, just for a little longer, please.

Your so sunken into the black ocean that you don’t hear the door to your bedroom creak open, followed by soft footfalls.

“…Tee?”

The nickname breaks the silence. Your eyes fully reopen to an almost-dark. Gray instead of void.

“Yes?”

Five doesn’t like the way your voice sounds. So…vacant.

“You alright?” he cautiously asks. You don’t turn around to him. Why are you sitting so still? The last time you were still, he saw you…saw you…

“Mm. I am.”

Another step, slightly closer to you, not so close to do more damage.

“Listen. I, um…” Five swallows. “I wanted to apologize. For what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know. And thank you. It’s okay.”

It doesn’t _sound_ okay, but Five keeps the detail to himself. Not sure what to do with his hands, they wind up in his pockets.

“I’m going to get Delores. We need her help. I wanted to ask if you’d like to come with me. Meet her, that stuff.”

You finally, finally turn in your old desk chair, away from the listless window and to Five. You smile, gaze warm and forgiving.

“I’d love to, Five.”

He shouldn’t be relieved because there’s so much more to apologize for, so much more to make up for, and this stupid attempt at reconciliation doesn’t break the surface of all the grief Five gave and now has to undo.

But it’s a start, and you’ve always been an advocate for starts, so his old heart eases a fraction.

-

You park your Corolla a few blocks away from Gimbel Brothers department store, and after, you and Five walk the rest of the way. The black parking lot is slick with rain; lamppost light shines on the surface, and it’s so strange how these things can find ethereality.

Five teleports into the store, then unlocks the entrance for you to slide past. He hates jumping with other people in tow. It always drains him of more energy than necessary.

The department store, which you actually visited last week to buy a new scarf, has a nice kind of silence to it. Mysterious, suspended. Blue light bathes the store in a similar color that tinges your light whenever Ben interacts with it, whenever Five teleports, when Vanya reached out to you in the pain and brought you back.

Together, you and Five walk farther into the store, slipping past endless rows of clothes. Five snatches a flashlight from one of the miscellaneous bins and turns it on. White light breaks the blue. He shines it on a group of mannequins, slowing, then moves on when it’s not what he want. You stick close to him, your own gaze searching into the dark for something you won’t find, something you won’t understand.

When Five slows and stops, the light straightens. You watch a rare smile flick across his lips.

He now walks directly to another group of mannequins and stands before them. The light illuminates a single woman wearing department store clothes with a brown wig on her head and a yellow beret.

“Hello, Delores. It’s good to see you. This is Eight.”

Of course. Of course.

“She is. I’ve missed you, obviously. It’s…it’s been a rough couple of days.”

If Five cannot talk to you, then you’ll let him talk to Delores and hear the truth.

Unfortunately, however, any conversation with Five and his Delores has to wait.

Two figures appear on the opposite end of the aisle. In the haunting blue, they lift guns right at you, Delores, and Five.

It has been a hot minute since you’ve watched gunfire light up the dark. You leap in front of Five the same moment he screams a guttural, “No!”

Bullets bounce off your skin. Delores explodes in half. Five cries her name again, so you snatch her up in one arm and haul Five off to the side with the other. More bullets go flying with the dive, but you three get out of the way. Five groans at your weight landing awkwardly on him. “More of your friends?” you question as you roll off. You and Five peek your heads out to glimpse the armed figures.

“Hazel and Cha-Cha,” Five snarls. “Commission goons. Pretty good ones.”

“Wow, if you’re complimenting the people who are trying to kill you, then they must be great,” you say plainly. “I’ll take the big one? Is that Hazel or Cha-Cha?”

“What—no!”

You pat Delores on her now-bald head. “Start putting some space between them.”

“Like _hell_ I’m leaving you alone to fight! _I’m_ the assassin, not you!” It doesn’t help that Five’s teenage voice decides to crack in the middle of his arguing.

Instead of replying, you flash a grin and squeeze Five’s cheeks before he can recoil. Got him. “Then better get on it.”

Before you lunge back out, you catch a glimpse of Five sharing a similar grin. It makes you nostalgic; does it make him feel the same?

Then you’re running, running, bullets tearing bouncing off your skin, tearing through your academy clothes _and it’s another fucking outfit down_. You don’t scream—you never scream when you fight—but the man with the shotgun lets out a pained, surprised grunt of his own when you slam into his body. Shield bash. He’s strong; he doesn’t go down immediately, and he manages to pump his shotgun again and shoots point-blank into your stomach. It’s barely a tickle.

You bring your leg up into his groin and solidly connect. The assassin doubles over, giving you the opportunity to spin and leap up onto his back, arms wrapping around his thick neck and ankles linking across his front. In the distance, a woman shouts in pain. The department store bursts with blue and yellow fireworks.

“The fu—”

The man lets a yell of pain when you start hammering a steel-boned fist into the back of his strange metal-like inflated mask. Over and over, teeth gritted, hair loose, sweat gathering on your forehead. How long has it been since you _really_ fought like this? Is it okay that it feels this good?

He tumbles forward but aims the shotgun behind him with expert precision despite the assailant on his back. Another point-blank shot to the forehead. Your vision momentarily blinds white. He takes the pause to slam backward on the ground, crushing you underneath.

Your grip releases. He twists to push himself back up and finds two feet rabbit-kicking straight into his gut. The man’s wheeze echoes in his bulbous mask. He loses traction on the linoleum, which gives you the chance to spin upright, skirt twirling. You scan the department store and see a flash of Five’s blue near the entrance. With a glance at the assassin, who clutches his stomach like you bruised an organ—might have, honestly—you then take off in Five’s direction, sure to grab Delores on your way out.

The other assassin doesn’t hear you coming over her automatic gunfire until it’s too late. She whirls around the exact moment you leap and send a flying fist into the side of her mask, denting it in one blow. She curses and tumbles into a shelf. Five pops up from behind a rack of clothes and sees you sprinting to him with Delores.

You don’t pause as you race past; you simply extend a hand out to Five, sure you’ll feel him take it.

He does.

“We’re gonna have to jump together!” he yells. You swing him in front of you just in time to shrug off another onslaught of bullets to your back.

“Got enough power?”

“It’s rude that you even have to ask that question!”

You laugh, but it’s drowned out by rapid fire.

Then your entire consciousness flips upside down, inside out, tumbles out of your carefully-crafted box, tearing, shredding, and you can’t scream because you have no mouth, no throat—

Five is prepared to catch you when you stumble, legs lead, vision spinning. The discomfort comes close to pain, but you’re suffering from too much vertigo to properly deal with it. A noise comes from your throat, a small, panicked thing that hasn’t left your chest since Vanya found you in the attic a month after Ben’s funeral, feet dangling in the air.

“Breathe, breathe,” Five says to you while he half-drags you away from the glass doors of the department store. Your shoes scrape against the ethereal black of the pavement, black with glimmers of blue, black with glimmers of gunfire. Police sirens swirl in a distant song.

Though your steps are uneven, Five and you take off down the alley you first came from, down, down, then a turn, then down the wet sidewalk, fast food signs flashing neon in the corner of your vision, then another turn, then you see your car, and now you’re sitting in the passenger seat. Five starts the engine with the keys you had him keep in his pocket.

You clutch Delores to your chest and let your head thump on the headrest. Your breathing slows. You swallow. The box becomes orderly again.

Five runs fingers through his disheveled hair. He fixes his tie in the rearview mirror. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. I’m fine.” You gently lay Delores down in the backseat and buckle up. “Just…it’s just been a while since I jumped with you.”

“You feel itchy? Nauseous?”

“No. Just minor disorientation. It’s faded now.”

“Good.” Five does not sound like everything is good. He pulls out onto the street, and the two of you drive back to the academy manor.

“So,” you eventually say, “Who did I fight?”

“Hazel,” he wryly replies. “Cha-Cha was the one who came after me.”

“He was strong.”

“Yeah. He is.” Five looks at you sidelong. “But he can’t break steel, can he?”

“No. He can’t.”

-

Allison takes one look at you, Five, and the mannequin Five cradles in his arms, and shakes her head. Before Luther or Diego can ask what the hell happened, you say, “So, as it turns out, the Commission _is_ a problem we may have to deal with soon.”

You agree to talk about it in the morning.

-

At Gimbel Brothers department store—or really, what’s left of it—Detective Patch holds up a piece of familiar plaid with a pair of tweezers. A scoff breezes past her lips. Unbelievable. Honestly.

“Recognize it?” Beeman asks. Patch bags the plaid for evidence.

“Nah,” she lies. “Just think it’s a real ugly pattern.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed around and made a playlist for Eight if you want to [listen](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=zgrG2BBLQKuDC1K4PBP7ew)


	16. oh sinnerman, where you gonna run to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Sinnerman"](https://open.spotify.com/track/3EIidirnGCYto1KtcNfttt?si=9ayQ6ChtQWK8pbLlMQ7IyA)

Vanya stayed up with you to talk about what happened at the department store, the apocalypse Five revealed happening soon (you intentionally leave out certain details), and the overall craziness that went down while she continued her “normal” life. The conversation went late into the night. You threw away your shot-up uniform and exchanged it for comfortable, familiar pajamas.

“So, Delores is a mannequin?”

“Seems like it.”

“That’s…sad.” But she said it in a sincere way, not a deprecating one. “I guess if you’re alone in the apocalypse for forty-three years, you try to find some way to remind yourself you’re human.”

Talking with Vanya is the reason why she rushes out the door the following morning with her violin case, cursing about being late for orchestral practice. You would have woken her up yourself had you not fallen asleep on the couch and only jerked into consciousness when you heard her bustling around the apartment.

“I’m so sorry—I love you!” you call.

“Love you, too,” she echoes hurriedly. The door shuts. Your head plops back down onto a throw cushion.

…Then another knock wakes you up again. You peer at the clock; it’s been half an hour since Vanya left.

You roll off the couch and stumble to the door to peer through the peephole. The person standing on the other side makes you whisper, _“Shit.”_

Patch stares back at you when you crack the door open a bit, obviously discontent. You’ve only ever seen Diego receive the look she currently gives you.

“Hey, Patch.”

“Hi, Eight.” Her smile is thin-lipped. “I didn’t take you for the kind of person to wear pajamas this late.”

“It’s still kind of early. I have an occasional lazy day.”

“Uh huh. A lazy day to follow an exciting night, perhaps?”

“Um…”

She puts a hand on her hip and holds up a plastic evidence bag. Inside is fabric from your uniform skirt. “Now, I know Diego does _not_ wear his ridiculous academy outfit anymore. Nobody does, really, except for perhaps someone still young enough to fit in the clothes. So, as the most responsible one in this dysfunctional family of yours, wanna tell me _why_ I found this at the scene of a shootout in Gimbel Brothers?”

You pause, quiet and concentrated, weighing the options. Patch waits with blatant expectation.

“Is this on or off the record?”

“Depends on what you say, Eight.”

She watches you let out a sigh that reveals your true age instead of the one your body displays. “Honestly, Patch, things have gotten _very_ weird lately. If you want to know what happened, then you need to set aside your cop brain for a second.”

Smirking, she puts the evidence back in her pocket. “Yeah, well,” she confesses resignedly while you allow her to enter the apartment, “I didn’t tell anyone I recognized the pattern, so looks like I’ve already got a head start.”

“Thanks for covering.”

“Thank me when you tell me what the hell is going on in this town.”

You tell Patch you’re going to get changed before giving any explanation. While you put on some proper clothes for the day, the detective wanders to the kitchen garbage. Her foot presses on the pedal to lift the lid up. She clicks her tongue at the crumpled heap of a bullet-torn, powder-streaked academy uniform sitting in the trash.

By the time you come out, dressed and prepared for the day, Patch idly examines photographs on a shelf. Most of them are of you, Vanya, and the family after you left the academy, but there are a couple dotted among mismatched but tasteful frames of when you were younger. Patch can’t decide if you look happier or sadder between the two periods.

You wear black leggings, ankle-cut rainboots, and a plain maroon sweater paired with a simple necklace. “Are you hungry?” you ask. “I can put a pot of coffee on, if you’d like.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Alright.” You dig a Zebra Cake from a box on the counter and snatch your car keys up. “Wanna follow me to the academy?”

Patch scoffs. “I thought we were good to talk here.”

“Believe me, you’re going to need corroboration of the insane shit happening with our family right now.” To yourself, you sigh and murmur, “Five is going to _try_ and murder me for bringing you into this mess. Diego, too.”

“Wait, wait, hold up. Five? As in, long-lost-missing-brother Five?”

“The same. And he got shoved back into his teenage body when he time traveled back to us, so…don’t make any jokes about him being a child. He’ll probably try to gouge your eyes out.” You pause, then add, “He’s going through some things right now.”

Patch goes through a face journey, but she eventually settles on a brief, “O-kay.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

-

If Diego was upset that you called Patch asking about him, he’s taken it up another notch when he sees her walk through the door of the mansion with you.

“Hey, what the _fuck?_ Eudora—”

Patch holds a hand up to silence Diego. It works. “Don’t,” she breathes. “I have had a _hell_ of a night, and I am tired of running around aimlessly when I can just come straight to the source: all of you.”

Klaus, watching Diego get shut down by his ex, laughs. “Can you teach me to do that?” he asks, though he doesn’t get an answer.

Hearing the commotion, Five walks from the kitchen and into the sitting room with a mug of coffee in his hands. He freezes in his tracks when he sees Patch. His expression rages hotly, but when he speaks, his voice comes out forcefully cool. “Eight, who is this?”

You don’t have to answer. Patch steps forward and flashes her badge. Five rolls his head and groans. “Detective Patch. You must be Five.”

“I am,” he smirks none-too-kindly. “And you’re not invited into the business of our family affairs.”

“Actually,” you correct, “she is. I invited her.”

“And, tell me, Eight, _why_ you’d invite a _fucking_ cop here?”

“Wow,” Klaus muses aloud, “I actually don’t have to follow the instinct of running at the mention of a cop. Because _somebody_ took my drugs!” He points the shout at Allison, who ignores him. She and Luther are too invested in the scene unfolding before them to reply to Klaus. When he gets no attention back, he whines to Ben, “This is boring. Can we leave? Oh. Yeah. You’re probably right. Yeah, yeah. That’s Diego’s ex. I know, way cooler than you’d expect for someone who’d date him.”

“Shut up, Klaus,” Diego snaps. His eyes haven’t moved away from Patch. “Why’d you bring her here, Eight?”

“The tension is much more palpable than it should be,” you mildly say, and you go to sit by Allison. She loosely drapes her arm over the couch, right above your shoulders. “It’s not really that hard to sort out. Five? Remember how we got shot up by your friends last night? Well, _I_ got shot up. You got shot at. Anyway, Patch found pieces of my skirt. And since she’s so _familiar—”_ You direct your voice at Diego, “with our family already…”

“She recognized the skirt,” Diego finishes quietly. Patch shrugs.

“Alright, _now_ can someone please explain to me why the hell you two kids—sorry, not kids—were at a shootout? And why we found casings that hadn’t been manufactured since the sixties?”

Everyone looks at each other, silently trying to decide who’s going to be the one to talk. Five, whose patience is in the negatives, irritably sighs and teleports to the other side of the room. Patch only slightly jumps.

“How many times do I have to explain this?” he asks, more to himself than anybody. “I’ll make it quick, so keep up—and that goes for the rest of you, too. Last night, Eight and I went to retrieve a personal…item of mine I had with me during the apocalypse—”

“The apocalypse?” Patch repeats. Five shoots her a glare.

“Questions at the end, alright?” He drinks more coffee before continuing. “While we were there, two time-traveling assassins named Hazel and Cha-Cha were sent from the Commission to get rid of me after I broke my contract. Former coworkers, you’d say. You keeping up, detective?”

Patch lifts a brow. “I thought you said to save questions for later. Thought that applied to you as well. You finished?”

Instead of being more pissed off, Five dryly chuckles.

“Fair enough. Working for assassins who preserve the timeline via, well, assassination, means the casings they leave behind can come from any period. So that answers your sixties conundrum. They put up a good fight, but they didn’t expect for Eight the Tank to be there.” Five smiles. “I would have been in more trouble if I went by myself. But it came with a cost. I didn’t get shot and leave behind evidence.” He shoots you a feigned sarcastic look. “Guess they can’t all be good as me.”

“Oh, shut up,” Allison claps back. “Sounds to me like Eight saved your ass. Surprise, surprise.”

“And now we’ve got a cop involved,” Luther says, but he notices the bitter connotation and quickly adds, “No offense, I mean. Always, uh, always good to have the law on our side.”

 _“Suck up,”_ Klaus sings.

“Actually, Luther, it’s bad,” Five corrects snidely. “It’s shit-bad. Do you know what cop involvement _always_ means to the Commission? Dead cops.”

“Unless Eudora here wants to drop the goody cop act and actually do something cool for once,” says Diego. He grins at Patch in the way only someone who has intimately known her can grin.

He’s met with a flat stare from Patch. “No.”

 _“No_ is right,” Five says. He finishes his coffee, then proceeds to scowl at the empty mug like it’s done him wrong. “Do you have _any_ idea how exhausting it is to keep all of you idiots in line as it is? We don’t need _another_ person put in harm’s way and potentially fuck things over for us and the future.”

Patch sharply clears her throat. “I may not be an _assassin,_ but I understand what danger is and how to protect people from it. That’s my _job._ And I don’t need an angry boy-man to tell me what I will and won’t do. I have follow-up questions, now, so can you answer them, or is the only thing you’re good at is insulting me?”

“Oh, I’m good at _plenty_ of other things,” Five says. He smiles menacingly. The empty coffee mug in his hand trembles, and at first you think it’s from anger at being called a “boy-man.”

But Five’s eyes begin to dart. The trembling increases. He spins away from all of you, breathing labored and uneven, to take in something you cannot see, cannot hear.

“That’s a hallucination right there,” Klaus says, then tosses a piece of sour candy into his mouth.

“Or a flashback,” Diego lowly counters.

Five’s PTSD obviously manifested in various forms you’ve all had to deal with the past few days, but to watch another facet of what the apocalypse did to him amplifies your worry. He hasn’t properly dealt with anything or anyone, and you’re almost positive that he fears slowing down. If he slows down, stops running, then he has to open his own box. The contents won’t be pretty.

“What should we do?” Allison questions. “Snap him out of it?”

“Just be easy,” says Patch. She adapts to the situation and shifts to a softer tone. “Gentle.”

You stand. Approaching, you calmly call, “Five. Five. I’m here. We’re all here. You’re here.”

He never went into a detailed description of how he found his family dead, how he found you dying, but you can imagine the haunting it left behind. You want to understand more. You want him to talk about it because talking is the first step to purge. Except Five has always been the most resistant to such processes, and it’s only been made worse by time.

When Five’s bleary eyes fall on you again, they stay there. He blinks. Blinks again. Before you can reach out to touch his shoulder, his wrist, anything, he inhales and steps back. He runs fingers through hair. “Shit,” he whispers. “Shit. Shit.”

Allison is the first to speak after the flashback recedes. “Five, how many times has this happened?”

Despite the obvious care she puts into her words, Five just sweeps his gaze over all of you one last time and, unable to come up with a response that isn’t caustic and hurtful, jumps to a place where nobody can see him in his state. The mug once in his grip shatters on the floor.

You stand in the ensuing silence for a few moments, boxing things away, breathing. Then you go over and pick up the pieces he left behind.

Another hand comes into view. Allison’s. “I got this,” she says to you with a small smile.

“It’s okay. You might get cut. I won’t.” Your skin doesn’t scrape or bleed. Allison could get hurt over a simple thing.

“I know,” she still says. “Just go check on him.”

It takes a moment of serious deliberation, but you nod and listen to Allison.

To the boys, you say, “Fill Patch in. Call for Pogo if you need help and ask Mom if she can bake some cookies.”

You head upstairs to seek out Five.

-

Five had buried you all in the remains of the courtyard. It couldn’t be a proper burial; he had no shovel, no strength, no soft earth. The acrid air burned his lungs if he breathed too hard for too long. He buried Pogo and Mom, too, when he found them a few days later rummaging through the rubble.

The graves were shallow. Five used the red wagon to transport your bodies, one by one.

You had not grown stiff like the rest. You did not begin to smell. You were just…cold. Cold and still.

He wondered every day for forty-three years if you had not rotted. If you had only laid there in the earth. He used to dream often that you had dug yourself out of the grave and found him in the apocalypse, then, then finally, he wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.

But you never came back.

Delores says you’re here now, and he needs to make the best of it.

“Yeah, I know,” he tiredly mumbles to her. “It’s just not easy.”

She says of course it’s not going to be easy; he’s emotionally constipated.

“Don’t need to tell me twice.”

He needs to try, try to talk, because if he doesn’t, then all that’s going to keep coming out of his mouth is what’s festered for over forty years. Delores adds that he shouldn’t argue because she’s right.

This is his family, the family he plotted to save for so long. Have a little faith.

“Have you seen them?” Five scoffs, arguing anyway. “They’re all wrecks.”

Not as much of a wreck as him, Delores unhelpfully points out. And it’s all because of you.

“Thanks,” he says indignantly.

Delores also says she’s sorry he never got to be there like the rest of the family to experience the after period of the academy. You started stitching them back together while Five’s wounds had to boil underneath the unforgiving apocalyptic sun.

Tell them how lucky they are to have you. He needs to tell _you_ how lucky they are.

You worry about him, Delores notes. Can’t he see it?

“She…doesn’t need to worry.” But Five winces at his lie.

Could have fooled her.

“I hate it when you’re sarcastic.”

She says the same thing, yet he never listens to her.

Now hush, she can hear you coming. Be nice.

Five sniffs.

You lean against the doorframe. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

You sit beside Five on his old bed. You take in the room, and a small smile curls the corner of your lip. “You never could just stick to paper, could you?”

The equations scribbled on Five’s walls have faded over time, but they were in permanent marker, so Mom couldn’t wash them off. Maybe she never tried. Maybe she wanted to remember him in any way she could.

“Did you ever come in here? After I time traveled.”

“Once. I slept in the bed, hoping I’d wake up to you kicking me out of it. But it was just a fantasy. Something I knew would never come true, at least not in that way. Vanya came here, though, and sometimes the others. Pogo and Mom, too, when they especially missed you. Everyone would come and…look at these equations, like they could find an answer in the numbers to bring you back themselves.”

“And you never did.”

“No. I…stopped dreaming a long time ago, Five. Hoped, yeah, but not dreamed.”

“What’s the difference?”

You hum. Things are coming out of your box too quickly and being given to Five. You don’t like how it makes you feel. You hold the contents of your box, taking and taking to put in and put in but never to give back out. They’re yours. Just yours.

“No idea,” you lie, though you’re not sure it’s a lie sometimes.

Five stares ahead, too. “Do you even have dreams? Like when you sleep.”

A single head shake. “No.”

His brows furrow. “Really?”

“I don’t. I just sleep.” You sleep in the nothing, the silence. It will beckon. You do not go to it. “Do you dream?”

“Yeah. All the time.”

“Are they bad dreams?”

He huffs, but an honest answer comes out. “Terrible. And they like to come out in the middle of the day, as you just saw.”

“I’m sorry. Do the flashbacks happen often?”

“No, not so much anymore. And when they do, they don’t last long.”

“Well.” You bump Five’s shoulder with your own. “When you’re ready to talk about them, I’m here. We all are. Just…I hope you realize that you _need_ to, at some point, start getting it all out.”

“Yeah, yeah. I already got the talk from Delores.”

Your smile grows. “Good. You need as many people as you can get to give you some common sense.”

Five sighs, but there’s a chuckle in it. He switches topics, and he’s glad you let him. “So, the detective, huh?”

“I trust her. I’d rather have her informed than stumbling over us in her own work. She also has experience wrangling a Hargreeves, so she’s not coming in totally inexperienced.”

You both share light laughs. “That’s true.” Five stands up. “I guess if you trust her, I have to trust you on it.”

“You do.”

“Then it’s settled. Let’s go see what fires we need to put out downstairs.”

“On it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=Oj_czzAwRHiQG1kFT3eYMg)


	17. can't keep up with my rhythm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["The Walker"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0Nk7bSn0MItonkR0GNs3mj?si=O2pKDprERqGOHVlZukdoZw)

“Is Vanya picking up the phone?”

“No. I’m not…I’m not sure where she is. She should be done with rehearsal by now, and I don’t think she has any lessons today.”

“Do you think she’s been snatched up by the creep?”

Diego dubbed Vanya’s unknown boyfriend as “the creep,” and so far, it’s stuck.

“Maybe,” you answer honestly. “I left a message telling her to come to the house when she’s available.”

“Unless she’s been kidnapped,” Luther says.

“She could be strung up right now, being forced to activate her powers.” Five seriously considers the notion while you all give him disbelieving looks. As soon as he notices, he defensively says, “What? It’s a legitimate possibility! We have to prepare for everything.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to be so…weird about it,” Luther mutters.

“We could possibly put in a missing person’s report,” Patch says, “but I doubt the precinct will take ‘suspected boyfriend from the future who will activate the apocalypse has taken said woman who will start said apocalypse.’ I say we split up and check the routes Vanya may have walked. Eight, you got an idea of what those might be?”

Pogo retrieves a map of the city. You point out the streets she possibly could have taken. She likes to pick up special croissants here sometimes after rehearsal, she likes this hot dog stand two streets over, she may browse this bookshop a train stop down. Knowledge about Vanya somewhat baffles your siblings, yet if it were them in a similar situation, you would probably pull the same information from the top of your head without hesitation, too.

That’s just you, their Eightie.

“Between all of us, we have three cars,” says Allison. “Patch, take Diego and Luther in your ride and check out these places. Klaus, come with me, and we’ll cover this area. Five and Eight can take the one nearest to your apartment.”

“I will stay here in case Miss Vanya calls back to the house,” Pogo says. He stands with his cane staunchly before him, prepared to be involved, prepared to do something instead of nothing. Dad’s hold has lifted from him as well.

“And all of you seem to have such busy days ahead of you,” Mom pleasantly puts in as she walks into the sitting room carrying a platter of brown sack lunches. “Hungry tummies create sleepy minds! Here, be sure to take one.”

“Thanks, Mom,” you echo. Diego presses a kiss to her temple. Patch watches observantly.

“Aaaand then what?” Klaus questions. He opens the lunch sack with his name on it to see what Mom packed and gasps in delight. “No crust! Thank you, Moooom.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie.”

“Anyway, what I’m trying to say,” Klaus continues, “is that _if_ we find Vanya or when she shows up or whatever, what then? Are we gonna sit her down and say—” He lowers his voice to imitate Diego or Luther. “‘Listen, Vanya, you have powers Dad made you forget because they’re strong enough to destroy the entire world. So just don’t use them when you start getting that rumbling in your tummy, and we should be fine.’”

“There will be _no_ right way to talk about it,” you say. Five and Allison nod. “It’ll probably get a kind of ugly before it can get better. So best be prepared. And hey, everybody, I just wanna say that when we _do_ talk to Vanya about this, be _nice.”_ You specifically stare at Luther, Diego, and Five. “She’s going to be very vulnerable and rightfully hurt. Don’t make it worse, alright?”

Luther says, “Yeah, Diego.”

At the same time, Diego says, “Yeah, Luther.”

The automatic glare they give causes Patch to scoff, but in an I-can’t-believe-you-children way. Diego, hearing it, has enough common sense to pull the glare back.

Five purses his lips into a placid smile. “I’m nice.”

Klaus barks a laugh.

“Be _tactful,_ then,” you correct.

The smile dissipates. “Right.”

“Okay, then. Let’s grab our lunches and go—and don’t forget we may be ambushed by professional assassins. So. Yeah.”

-

Five stares intently out the window, scouring the streets while he eats his peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich Mom made. His knobby knee bounces restlessly. You juggle a cold turkey sandwich with bits of bacon and pickles in it while you drive. Delores is buckled in the back.

“I hate this song,” Five says while he chews.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. But Delores says she likes it.”

“I don’t mind it, either.”

“It’s absolute shit.”

He doesn’t change the station.

-

“You okay back there Luther?” Patch inquires.

“Yep. Yep. Just…just a little cramped, but it’s good.”

“Don’t hit a bump,” Diego says. “Otherwise he’ll put a dent right in the roof of your car.”

“Shut up, Diego. Keep your eyes on the street.”

“Yes, sir, Number One. Affirmative.”

Patch murmurs an annoyed, “Oh my god,” under her breath.

-

“And _that’s_ how I came up with the brilliant idea to wax my ass with pudding.” Klaus loudly laughs, then abruptly says, “It was painful!”

“That is—so gross.”

“It was!”

“Hey, are you even keeping lookout!”

“Right, right. Ben, got anything? No? Expected.”

“Be nice to Ben, Klaus.”

“I am! I am _always—_ Allison, Ben says I am the _perfect_ brother, that I treat him _spectacularly,_ that I—”

Klaus’ head bangs against the window like a force suddenly shoved him into it. He gapes at Allison. Allison gapes at him. Ben gapes as well. He stares at his misty blue hand, which just physically connected with Klaus.

Cars honk behind them.

-

You regroup at the house at five pm, all empty-handed of your tiny, apocalyptic-causing sister.

“Anything, Pogo?” Five calls, quickly walking in.

“Yes, Master Five. Miss Vanya returned the call not fifteen minutes ago. Because you planned to return at this time, I decided to inform her to wait for one of you to pick her up from the apartment instead of hailing a cab for a, er, family meeting. She was mildly surprised, but she agreed to wait.”

A collective, relieved cheer goes up. Pogo smiles. “I’ll go get her,” Five says. “The rest of you, stay here, get prepared.”

“Wait, do you even know where we live?” you ask.

“Sure do. I looked at your driver’s license while we were out searching. By the way, how can you be an organ donor if nobody can cut into you?”

“…It’s the intent behind it.” You wave him off. “And besides, Five, you should have someone—”

He teleports, snatches your keys from your hand, and is gone again.

“—go with you in case the creep is there,” you finish windlessly.

“Typical,” Diego snorts. Just outside, you hear Five screech the tires on your poor Corolla. You wince.

“Well, how about we just all take a break,” Luther says. “Rest up, get prepared for a…round two.”

“I like the sound of that,” Klaus agrees. “I need a bath! Because I’ve been _violated_ today!”

Before anyone can ask him what he’s even talking about, he makes a break for the stairs and disappears from view.

“Come on, Eudora,” Diego says with a smirk and a jerk of his head. “Lemme show you my old bedroom.”

“Yuck.” But she follows him anyway, and they disappear.

“I’m gonna…be right back,” says Luther. You and Allison nod. Once he’s gone, she immediately grips your shoulders in a vise.

“Holy shit, Eightie, holy shit, something happened today.”

“What?”

“Ben, _Ben,_ our dead brother Ben, _pushed_ Klaus. His head to be specific. Into the window. But, but!” Allison beams excitedly. “But he bridged the gap! Like, he bridged the gap between there and here. Can you believe it?”

You blink back at Allison, trying to process this shit-ton of information suddenly thrown on you. She laughs at your expression, and you break out into a surprised grin.

“That’s…that’s amazing. And it happened when you were in the car together?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Wow. Holy fuck. I need to sit down. I’ve—I’ve _told_ Klaus he could do more with his powers, with Ben, if he—”

“Just sobered up,” you and Allison say at the same time, which follows with laughter. She snaps her fingers.

“Hey, I’m gonna be right back. Change first, then drinks. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll see you in a sec.”

Allison takes off. You keep grinning until she’s gone, then it settles into a bittersweet smile. Klaus won’t be happy. His powers scare him. Maybe, maybe he can finally see what good may come of having them with Ben’s help. You know he never forgot about the time you returned that ghost’s wife’s ring to his daughter and how it made him feel substantial.

Dad’s abuse will take time to undo, but perhaps this is a beginning for Klaus. A beginning for Ben, too.

With a tired but accomplished sigh, you sit next to Pogo on one of the couches. “An eventful day, Miss Eight,” he smiles.

“It was. Thank you for your help, Pogo.”

“You are most welcome. It was…refreshing, I shall say.”

“I’m glad.” You stretch your legs out.

“Your father would be proud of you for bringing the family together like this, I believe.”

The menacing portrait of Dad over the mantle bores into your soul.

“Pogo,” you say after some silence, “now that he’s gone, I think it’s okay for you to change _your father_ to _I_ and _me._ And…” You shift to look at him. “I’d much prefer to have your pride than his on any given day.”

Emotion swells in Pogo’s amber eyes. He smiles once more and pats your leg.

“I am glad you—”

The sound of the door lock popping off from an air pressurizer cuts off your tender moment. Pogo’s expression becomes serious.

“Pogo.” You take his wrinkled hand and quietly stand. He does the same. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your bedroom.”

“I can make the journey myself just fine,” he whispers.

“I know. But I want to be careful.”

He decides against further protest, and the two of you slink from the sitting room. You don’t see anyone enter, but you have a good idea of who it might be. By the time you make it to Pogo’s chambers, familiar gunfire splits the silence. It mingles with shots from a pistol.

“Don’t come out until I say it’s safe,” you say.

Pogo nods. “Understood. Be careful, Miss Eight.”

“I will.”

The door shuts. You make sure your rain boots have traction on the tile. They squeak affirmatively.

Then you book it back into the main wing of the house.

Diego and Patch are taking heavy fire, too much for them to retaliate. Hazel and Cha-Cha fire by the doors that lead out to the foyer, while Patch and Diego hunker next to a couch. Down drifts in the air like snow, fluttering and free. You sprint straight toward Hazel, who sees you at the last second before you ram into him.

You hear a distinct, “Aw, shit.”

The domino effect causes Hazel to knock into Cha-Cha, whose automatic fire goes arcing up into the higher levels. You worry about Mom, but she’ll be fine if she stays out of direct sight.

“Diego! Get Patch out of here!” you shout.

“Like hell I’m leaving!” she shouts back.

Hazel fires right into your shoulder, blowing a chunk of your sweater off.

You give him an exasperated look. “Stop ruining my clothes!”

Diego emerges into your periphery to take on Cha-Cha. Hazel tries to shoot at you again, but you latch onto his hands and maneuver the barrel so it tips back to his mask. Your finger finds the trigger and pulls. The shotgun blast nearly takes his head off. He loses grip of the gun, relinquishing it to you. The moment you have it, you toss the weapon off to the side.

Cha-Cha suddenly vanishes from view. You hear her yelp. Hazel’s massive hand finds your throat; your feet lurch into the air, and you remember a similar sensation you once had.

You would have fought back against Hazel, but you see Luther appear behind him and grab onto his shoulders. Surprised, Hazel drops you. It’s a good thing, too, because Luther chucks him into the foyer.

“Hazel and Cha-Cha?” Allison pants.

“Hazel,” you point. “Cha-Cha.” You point again.

“What is _with_ the masks?” Patch questions frustratedly.

You don’t get to answer—not that you have one—because Cha-Cha rolls up with her automatic firing again. You shield the closest person to you, Patch, and stay with her while you all run from the direct onslaught.

“Allison, Diego, Patch—get out of here, now!” Luther yells. “Eight and I will handle it!”

“Oh, _no,_ I am not letting you go off and be all hero by yourself!” Diego _has_ to argue.

The gunfire stops. “For once in your damn life, just come _on!”_ Patch yanks hard on his arm, and because he can’t talk against her like with Luther, he follows, and you all effectively split up.

Luther and you swing back around to the foyer, taking another entrance. By the time you reach the other side of where Hazel stands, now with a flail in hand, Cha-Cha’s endless round bullets echo downstairs. Shit. She followed the others.

You have faith that they can handle themselves, though.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hazel groans when he sees you two. The flail in his hand twirls despite the odds against him.

“Wanna do Method Four?” you ask Luther. He rolls his shoulders.

“I was thinking the exact same thing.”

“Awesome.”

Method Four was always your favorite technique when the two of you paired together to fight someone else. With Luther’s strength and your invulnerability, you make for a great team.

Hazel recognizes this. He dives in first for a hit at Luther before you can strategize more. Luckily, neither of you need any strategizing; it’s all muscle memory. Luther grips Hazel’s wrist, stopping him from getting a hit in with the flail. He tosses it in the air and catches it with the other hand, but you snatch the mace head with your bare hand before it can get a dig in on Luther. You rip it from his grasp. It slides across the ground, away from immediate reach.

Luther punches Hazel’s side; you kick at the weak part in his shin. He manages to take a mean swipe at you and send you flying back a few feet. Luther and him go into a grapple, but Luther knows to bend his body forward just in time to have you leap up onto his back. With a wider surface, now, it gives you more balance to effectively jackknife your body and slam your head down into Hazel’s stupid metal mask. It rings his bell, and he loses any progress on taking Luther down by involuntarily loosening his arms.

“And stop denting my head!” Hazel shouts at you.

As an apology, you slide off Luther so he can straighten and land a punch to Hazel’s stomach. You two become a flurry of well-coordinated jabs, kicks, and blocks. Every time Hazel hits you, his knuckles crack against steel. You take the heavier hits due to your positioning, which leaves Luther better defended to make direct attacks. It’s an ebb and flow, a tag, and it comes with no small amount of pride to fall so easily into combat with Luther against an opponent. Light, faint, faint and soft but sure, begins to ribbon across your exposed skin—the light hasn’t shown itself with fighting ever since Five left, and the light left entirely when Ben died. It only appears with direct contact from Ben.

Until now.

Hazel gets the right idea by picking you up under your armpits in your smaller teenage body and hurling you as far away as he can from him. You do get an extra kick against the mask while you sail. When you land, you claw your fingers and curl your boots to get traction against the old rug. The action slows you until you find yourself right above the chandelier.

Distracted by your sudden throw, Luther allows Hazel to make one final attempt at a getaway by picking him up and body-slamming him backward onto the ground.

“Luther!” you cry out. Hazel rolls upright and starts to exit through the sitting room. You scramble to your feet and attempt to go after him, but Allison and Diego enter the foyer with Patch in tow, her arms draped over their shoulders. Blood blooms across the side of her linen shirt, but the way she winces and curses tells you she’s still pretty conscious—just in pain.

Getting her out of her and seeking medical attention is now first priority. You can’t retreat to the infirmary without Pogo or Mom to help. _Shit, Mom, she might be in danger—and where the hell is Klaus?_

Diego’s expression mirrors the same conclusion you’ve come to. While you could outnumber the assassins, Patch’s injury changes things.

You go to help Luther up. He’s much heavier than a normal human. He always had a dense body growing up, but whatever Dad did to him completely overhauled his anatomy.

“I—I’m okay,” he pants, but once he’s on his feet, he relies on you for support. You don’t buckle under the weight; if you can withstand the pressure of the ocean, you can keep Luther up by yourself.

He freezes, as do Allison, Diego, and Patch. You turn your head in the same direction as theirs. Upon the second level, Cha-Cha stands ominously, watching all of you back. Diego goes to throw another knife at her, but before he can, she viciously sabotages the levers and ropes keeping the chandelier up. It groans, then falls.

You shove Luther. Luther shoves you.

He wins.

You careen off to the side as the chandelier crushes Luther underneath its mass. Bulbs shatter, metal rattles, Allison screams.

When you look back up to where Cha-Cha stood, you see nothing.

The assassins retreated first. It’s a victory and a loss wrapped up into one.

“Luther—” You get up again to make your way to him. “I’m coming—hold on.”

But he doesn’t need your help.

As Luther stands, clothes catch and tear on the chandelier’s metal. And he…he…

_What did Dad do to him?_

The shame and fear that fills his face when all of you stare back at his body makes pain lance through your heart. He can’t stand in front of you—in front of Allison.

You call Luther’s name, but he’s already escaping up the stairs and to his bedroom.

Breathe. Breathe. You box it away. Box it away for now.

“Diego, Allison, get Patch to the infirmary. Then grab Pogo from his room, tell him it’s okay to come out.”

Mom’s humming floating down from the second level of the house doesn’t settle well with you. So, with a nod to Diego—who would rush to her if it weren’t for Patch—you say, “I’ll grab Mom. She can help, too.”

“Make sure she’s okay,” Diego says to you as he and Allison take Patch farther into the manor.

“I will.”

You jog up the stairs. Mom, you find, has been cross-stitching this whole time.

New ache rises up into your throat. You shove it down into the box. You don’t want to feel pain. Not like this. Not with her.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Eightie?”

“Are you alright?”

“Of course I am,” she smiles gently. You kneel beside her. She keeps threading away, pushing the needle up, pulling, pushing the needle back down.

You softly gasp when you see she has threaded string through her own hand and never noticed.

“Oh, Mom.”

“What’s the matter? You seem troubled. Need to talk?”

She stops her threading when your hands place themselves on top of hers. “I just…we were worried about you.”

Mom sweetly chuckles. “Why ever would you worry about me, silly? It’s my job to look after you children. That’s what a mother does.”

“It’s because I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too.”

You gently take the hoop from Mom. Leaning in, you break the string with your teeth. Mom watches with a vacant smile. You pull the thread from her artificial flesh. A bead of black wells up in the small hole it leaves behind.

“I’m old enough now, Mom, to take care of you. Let me take care of you.”

A hand rests on top of your head. Lucidity shapes Mom’s smile.

“My precious Eightie. All grown up.”

The hand slides to your cheek. “Just don’t forget you’re still allowed to be looked after.”

She continues to smile in spite of your silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=ErxtRXyCQeajLJCCnc2pbg)


	18. the danger is i'm dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Kill of the Night"](https://open.spotify.com/track/2m17BTWlZq0wtS9cpJsCfM?si=rAFAXm_VQhiFIyDHz2IQBA)

It takes a month of searching, but Five finds your home and living magazine underneath three feet of broken concrete. He carefully pulls it out, dusts it off, and grins. It’s yours. He can tell because of the dog-eared pages that take him to photos of a mid-century modern with those high windows and angular architecture.

He also picks up an origami frog with dust in its paper crevices. It still bounces.

Five looks through the magazine every night, like it has the power to take him home. He thinks of you, of Vanya, of all the dreams you had of moving into your own home together, dancing and eating donuts and playing violin by the windows. Sun would soak the wooden floor your feet swayed upon. Your toes would curl against his thigh while he read to you, and he wouldn’t ever get mad again.

When the magazine starts falling apart, Five carefully removes your dog-eared selection and folds them, keeps them close to his chest. They stay there for years, folded and refolded, faded by time. Then, one night, he gets drunk, and when he pulls the pages out to tearfully talk about the dreams he’ll never see with Delores, he passes out before he remembers to put them back.

When the morning comes, the wind has blown away the mid-century modern. Five screams all day until his throat is raw. He never recovers them.

The origami frog maintains its bounce. Not wanting to make the mistake like he did with the magazine, Five keeps the frog carefully pressed in a pocket but only takes it out when he dares, when he feels like reality slips further and further away from him. Then the frog jumps underneath the touch of his finger, and he can breathe again.

On a hit job in Paraguay for the Commission, Five gets shot. It’s not serious, but that’s not why he panics. He ducks for cover, and as he does, he reaches into his pocket to pull out the origami frog to make sure it’s okay, it’s unhurt, it’s fine, and if it’s fine, then he’s fine, he’s fine.

All he grasps from the pocket are blood-soaked fragments of paper.

The mission became one of his most violent to date.

Of course, Five was willing to amend that record upon seeing the front door of the academy house ajar, the lock missing.

His knuckles whiten as they clench together. The world becomes calm, concentrated. Five prepares himself to kill. Disconnected. “Vanya, stay here—”

You slip past the door and wave to them. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” you say. One of your sweater sleeves is gone completely, and you have signature skid marks on your forehead from bashing against something—or into.

“What the hell happened?” Five rapidly questions. You pull Vanya into a tight hug. She hugs you back.

“Hazel and Cha-Cha found us.”

“The assassins?” asks Vanya. Five swears. You let go of her and nod.

“Yeah. I don’t think they expected all of us to be there, but they were looking for you, Five.” You lightly flick his nose. He swats your hand away with a scowl. “They shot Patch, but it wasn’t too serious. Pogo is looking after her now. They…”

You swallow the pain. Vanya catches the bob in your throat, the pause. Her stomach twists.

“They took Klaus.”

Through clenched teeth, Five hisses out, _“What?”_

“I couldn’t find him anywhere in the house. The water he took a bath in had just been drained, so, so he must have gotten out and then snatched up.”

The ache in your heart nearly overwhelms you as you talk to Vanya and Five. At the hint of pain, pain you can’t shut the lid on right away, pain Vanya and Five see, pain you can’t have, don’t want, pain that will kill you if it lingers, you abruptly turn to the wall of the house, brace both hands against it, and bash your head in. The force doesn’t hurt, but it does jolt you back into place, back into clarity. The box shuts and clicks.

Five startles, eyes wide and horrified. Vanya, much better prepared for such a reaction, comes up behind you, gently wraps her arms around your waist, and rests her cheek against the back of your shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. You breathe steadily. “It’s okay, Eightie. We’ll find him. We will.”

“We will,” you echo. Your palms drop from the wall. You tilt your head back, and it bumps against Vanya’s.

She releases you, and you walk inside the house like nothing happened. “Come on. We need to figure out where they might have taken him. Also check on Patch, too.”

You don’t wait for them to follow. Five and Vanya hang back on the front steps.

“That’s…new,” he mutters darkly. The sight of you doing such a thing disturbs the fast-workings of his brain, making it spark and steam, but it at least tells Vanya he still cares for you.

“Yeah. She…after Ben died, she started the habit. It happens whenever she starts feeling like she’s losing control and can’t escape to deal with it.” Vanya’s voice drops with her gaze. “Things got really bad for her when he died, Five.”

The connotation in her words hints at more she’s not saying. Five looks into the house, mouth drawn into a thin, heavy frown.

“It wouldn’t have been as bad if I was still there.”

Vanya doesn’t answer immediately. She wouldn’t ever imply such a thing. Five reaches the conclusion on his own.

Her response comes quietly. “But you’re here now.”

Yeah, and he’s not sure it’ll even make a difference.

-

Nobody says it out loud, but you all inwardly sigh in relief when you decide to postpone the “apocalypse talk” with Vanya. It won’t get any easier the more you hold it off, of course, and time continues to tick—except Vanya awkwardly confesses she was out with a man she met while she apologizes for making you all worry about her.

“What’s his name?” you all unanimously ask, then give each other blameful looks for speaking.

Vanya, too embarrassed to notice, said his name was Leonard. Leonard Peabody.

You latch onto the name. So that’s the soon-to-be boyfriend from the way Vanya’s blushing.

In your ear, Diego whispers, “Honestly, it’s such a creepy name that I’m almost impressed.”

He gets a light elbow to his side just because he’s speaking with Vanya so close, but the following side-glance you give tell him you agree. Diego smirks.

But Klaus is still gone, and his smirk is short-lived.

“Leave it to him to get kidnapped,” Luther says tiredly. He has on a new shirt to cover up his body. You need to talk to him later. “We need to go out and look for him. Five, do you have any idea where they might have gone? A hideout? Safehouse?”

Five rubs his face. “Housing arrangements have always been…shit, but they’ve gotten steadily worse because of budget cuts. I’ll need to see a list of the most craphole hotels in the city.”

“That’ll be a long list,” Patch says. She wears one of Allison’s pajama t-shirts. You don’t think she should even be sitting up and talking; the gunshot had been a graze, but it was still a gunshot. It’s Patch, though. Being with someone like Diego means she has a mean stubborn streak as well. “But I can get started with a few.”

“You need to rest, Eudora,” Diego says despite her scowl. He thinks on the same wavelength as you. “I have some in mind, too."

“Call me Eudora one more time and you’ll be the one who needs some _rest,_ Hargreeves.”

An absent comment from Klaus reminds you of the hole in your family. Can’t you _all_ just be together for once? For five minutes?

“He’ll be okay,” Allison assures. Her eyes dart around and finally land on you, asking for permission to say what’s on her mind. You nod. “He has Ben.”

The revelation makes for the continuation of a _long_ night.

-

Five jolts from dreams of ash and sun to the shadowed inside of a car. Fluorescent lights from a gas station create a sharp contrast of the world he came from.

“Shit,” he mutters, partially because his heart thuds from the nightmare and partially because he fell asleep in the first place.

The driver’s door opens. You toss packages into Five’s lap. He blinks the bleariness away to examine one. Twizzlers.

“How long was I out?” he asks you.

“Not long. About twenty, thirty minutes. I had to stop and gas the car up. Thought I’d grab snacks.” You start driving the car from the gas pump. At the same time, you pop the tab of an energy drink.

“We should trade places,” Five says. “You’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

Yeah, right. Staying up all night in a futile attempt to find Klaus isn't the only thing that makes you look exhausted. He'd say something outright about it, but he doesn't want to make you more miserable.

You take a few decent drinks from the can and then pass it to Five. He grimaces at it. “I don’t know how you can drink this stuff. It’s too sweet.”

“Mm, that’s exactly what an old man would say,” you smirk. He glowers at you, though it has no bite. “But it’s what all the kids are drinking these days. I myself look like one of these kids, so I have to follow the rules. And hey, Dad would have hated it more than coffee, so I think that’s a valid reason to like it as well.”

Five takes a tentative sip. He grimaces again but repeats. You open the bag of Twizzlers and take two out, putting both in your mouth and letting them hang there. Once you pull back out onto the road, you continue the drive to the next motel in question. When Five passes the energy drink back to you, it’s already half empty.

“You’ve got a problem, Five.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of problems. Caffeine is on a _much_ lower rung than the rest.”

That gets a smile from you through the Twizzlers you’re chewing on hands free. Five grabs a bag of chips on his lap and tears the bag open. He unceremoniously shovels a couple into his mouth. Barbecue. Not his favorite, but not the worst.

“It makes me feel a tiny bit better that even though Klaus is probably being tortured for information, he’s torturing Hazel and Cha-Cha right back,” you admit.

Five snorts. “Yeah, I don’t doubt that. I’m sure he’s driving them up the wall.” He washes the chips down with more of the energy drink. “You think Ben will help him get out of there?”

“Maybe. We didn’t even get to talk to him about anything before the attack. He might not even want to try getting Ben to help. Klaus can be… _so_ stubborn sometimes.”

Delores comments from the backseat that she knows someone like that. Five shoots her a glare.

Streetlights rhythmically flash over your face, letting Five catch glimpses of you and the Twizzlers and the worry.

He stares straight ahead. “We’ll find him, Tee. Then we’ll kill Hazel and Cha-Cha for taking him.”

“We’re going to have to do a lot more killing than that. Hazel and Cha-Cha, I assume, are only the beginning. If they fail, then more will just resume the job.”

“…Yeah.”

“So,” you muse, the Twizzlers slowly growing shorter, “I guess it means we have to go to the very top if we want to stop the apocalypse, save our family, and not worry about being assassinated every five minutes.”

He turns his head to her. A smile starts to form.

“It’ll be impossible,” he says.

“I mean, more impossible than stopping the apocalypse?”

“Maybe.”

“Huh. I still like our chances.”

“It means killing, Eightie. Can you handle that?”

“They want to hurt us. Of course I can.”

You tip your head back and let what’s left of the Twizzlers fall into your mouth. Five’s smile sharpens.

“But first,” he goes on, voice low and mingling with some advertisement on the radio, “we’re going to have to kill Leonard fucking Peabody.”

“Yeah,” you say almost resignedly. Almost. “We are.”

-

When you walk into Griddy’s with the sole intent to get two boxes of donuts with at least four glazed donuts in the mix, you don’t expect to see a familiar blue-suited figure sitting at the counter, drinking coffee, eating a donut, and making the waitress smile. His back is to you, and you can see a faint stamp of your rain boot on his blazer.

At first, you have to blink. This is…odd.

You could snap his neck, but that would make a mess, and you’re honestly too tired and hungry to give a shit right now.

Wow. He’s _really_ making the waitress smile. Agnes, you remember. He asks for another donut, and she happily gives another one to him. The moment she turns away, you wearily settle on the stool beside Hazel. He, too, wears a lingering smile from talking with Agnes.

You prop your cheek on a fist. “Rough night?” you ask.

Hazel glances at you—then just about falls from his stool. You give him a placid smile. “Yeah, me too.”

His hand immediately reaches into his blazer jacket but doesn’t pull anything out. You click your tongue. “Are you _sure_ you want to make a scene here? In front of the nice donut lady? After she just had her shop shot up by your associates just a few nights ago?”

Hazel’s mouth scrunches and twists in conflict, trying to decide whether to take you on your not. You stare back. Finally, he says, “What do you want?”

“At the moment? Donuts. In general? My brother.”

You take in the bruises around Hazel’s temple and a fading goose egg where you definitely headbutted him last night. “But,” you go on, “we can call this neutral territory. You don’t try to kill me, I don’t try to kill you. Sound good?”

He takes a bite of his donut to contemplate, then says, “Agreed.”

“Where’s your partner?”

“With your brother.”

You have a feeling that if Cha-Cha were here, you and Hazel wouldn’t be having the conversation at all, and everyone in the shop would be dead as a result of them trying to off you.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s…alive.”

The corner of Hazel’s eye twitches, which makes you smirk. “He’s terrible, isn’t he?”

The statement makes Hazel let out a small, wry breath. He shakes his head. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, believe me, I do. I’ve lived with his _personality_ for thirty years.”

“Thirty years?”

You pause and give Hazel another look, taking in his sincere confusion. “They…oh, man, the Commission told you _nothing_ about us, did they? That’s why you tried storming the house and got your asses handed to you.”

“I wouldn’t say handed…” But Hazel himself doesn’t sound convinced.

“Uh huh.”

After a sigh, you hold out your hand. Hazel reluctantly takes it, and you shake once. “Eight. I’m a member of the Umbrella Academy. Or, _was.”_

“Hazel. Commission.”

“Nice to finally put a face to the mask, Hazel.”

“I’m sure.”

A sharp gasp draws both your attention to Agnes, who stands on the other side of the counter with a mostly-empty coffee pot. Shock freezes her in place. You smile and wave.

“It’s—it’s you,” she whispers. “The girl from…from the other night.”

“Yeah,” you wince. “I heard about what happened right after we left. I’m so sorry! That must have been awful. But I’m glad to see you’re okay.”

She manages a shaky smile and composes herself. “Well,” Agnes says, stepping closer to you and Hazel, “I guess even a donut lady can be made of tough stuff.”

“They can.”

“Oh—” Agnes points her pen at Hazel, “did you find her, her brother?”

“I did,” Hazel replies with a believable enough smile.

“And I’m very glad,” you add with your sweet, youthful face. Agnes grins.

“I’m sure. Well, sweetie, what can I get you?”

“Two boxes of donuts, please. Make sure that four are glazed and two are chocolate-covered with sprinkles.”

She jots down the specifications and winks at you. “I’ll get right on it, hon.”

“Thank you.”

Once Agnes gets out of earshot, you and Hazel resume your conversation. “So,” Hazel says, the rim of his coffee mug close to his lips, “the end of the world, huh?”

“Mm. So he told you about that. Yeah.”

“We’re not stopping a deserter. We’re meant to make sure the apocalypse happens.”

“Seriously, the Commission didn’t tell you _any_ of this?”

“They don’t tell us crap.” Hazel takes a frustrated bite of his donut. “And we’re not even getting hazard pay for it.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“It is—thank you, it really is.” He sighs, and if he realizes the ridiculousness of talking to the person he tried to kill the past two nights in a row, he doesn’t show it. More somberly, Hazel says, “The world is ending. All this, all these…people, they’ll be gone, and they have just…no idea.”

You take in the people eating their donuts and drinking their coffee and catching up with friends or with themselves. Hazel’s gaze lands on Agnes. You follow it and look at the precious donut lady.

“Sounds almost as if you want to do something about it,” you say. A hand sneaks in underneath the donut box Agnes drops off. When you pay her and she heads somewhere else again, Hazel shakes his head firmly.

“No. No, I can’t. I’m just a field agent.”

“So was Five.”

“And look what they’re doing to him now.” Firmness—exasperation, too—sneaks into Hazel’s tone. “It’s going to happen, kid, no matter what you try to do. The Commission always preserves the timeline. So, even _if_ I wanted, I’m won’t try to stop it. Because it’ll just get me dead and the world still gone.”

You’re silent for a few moments, partially to finish your donut, then you say to him, “I think we’re going to prove you wrong. And I think you want us to.”

Hazel watches you stand and take the donut boxes. They swing in front of him, kind of like a final buffer of peace between you two.

“Oh,” you add before you entirely walk away, “and I would let our brother go. I’d hate to see you killed. Because believe me…” Your voice softens and sharpens. “It will take _much_ more to kill me than it will to kill you.”

He only nods once, accepting that the hunt is back on again. You flash a smile and leave the neutral territory. Outside in the cool, sunny morning, you memorize all the cars parked by the shop for later use.

Then you floor it back to the house for backup. In your other hand, you clench the key to the motel room Hazel had in his pocket. You nimbly plucked it out when you used the donut boxes as cover from Hazel’s field of vision. The key ring’s rubber tab has the room number on one side and the name on the other. _Neutral ground_ connoted no violence, not…a little picking.

And Five said it wasn’t a good idea to get donuts. Now you have a delicious, unhealthy breakfast _and_ quite literally the key to getting Klaus back.

You take another glazed donut from the box as a small reward.

After waiting a minute, Hazel pays for his donuts, makes sure to say goodbye to Agnes, and gets into his car. Then he floors it back to the motel to tell Cha-Cha they need to move and or get a defense set up _now._ Taking or leaving their idiot brother will have to be decided when he returns.

Despite what his occupation entails, Hazel _does_ like avoiding a bloodbath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=RNqwb4bbRqebJA_7OwyLUg)


	19. this year's love had better last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["This Year's Love"](https://open.spotify.com/track/1dQOMZz9SkT7ig0w65lQWC?si=zQKM1iioQ_2Z-kt1OUNnPA)

“Will this piece of shit go any faster?” Diego practically screams into your ear.

“Do you want me to get pulled over?” you _lightly_ snap back. “I’m going as fast as I can!”

“We need to pick up the pace! There’s no way those two assholes are going to stick around with Klaus now that we have a lead on them! You should have just come back to the house and told us that you saw fucking _Hazel_ at Griddy’s!”

“And what, risk letting him go—”

“Turn here!” Allison shouts. She’s in charge of the map. You slow and smack the blinker a second before you turn. It still gets honks. You hear the end of your car scrape on the road because of Luther jammed into the backseat with Allison and Diego. _Why_ everybody piled into your Corolla before you could say anything is absolutely beyond you.

You press on the accelerator to pick up speed again. “We need to come up with a plan before we take them on!” Five shouts over Diego. “They’ll be ready for us!”

“Yeah, here’s a plan, Five—”

“Ouch, Diego!” Allison cries.

“Diego, stop moving around!” Luther yells.

“Here’s a plan, Five, why don’t you take whatever plan you have, _shove it up your ass,_ and we’ll go right in there with Eight in the front and get the jump on them—”

“Can you _get_ any stupider?” Five shoots back. “This can’t be some all-out fight like your hero complex tells you it is! Klaus will be there! If they _fire_ at us, they’ll likely shoot Klaus too! If they haven’t done it already!”

“Which is why Eight should have come—”

“Stop dragging Eight into this, you _moronic_ , bargain bin Batman!”

“What the FUCK did you just call me?! Your ass is grass, old man!”

“TURN HERE!” Allison screeches a _second_ before you have to turn.

You don’t get time to use your blinker.

The five of you all scream at the top of your lungs as your Corolla swerves and fishtails into the turn. If Luther hadn’t been sitting on the opposite side of the turn’s direction, the car would have flipped.

 _“Jesus,_ Allison, a little warning next time?” Diego, not you, yells.

“Diego, if you do not sit down I’m going to rumor you to jump out the window!”

“Do it, I dare you!”

“Children,” Five says to nobody in particular. “I’m with literal children.”

To prove his point, Diego crams himself between the two front seats, eliciting a shout from Allison, and punches his fist into your knee. He lets out a “Motherfucker!” when his knuckles connect. “Eight, ever think about drinking _less_ milk sometime?”

The car’s engine puts it into higher gear than healthy. You do seventy in a forty-mile zone. “Please don’t be cops please don’t be cops please don’t be cops,” you pray under your breath.

Luther yanks Diego back, allowing you to slow somewhat. But as you’re half-braking, half-coasting, Allison jabs her finger into the window. “There! There! That’s i—”

You all scream again as you veer into the turn lane and swing around into the entrance of the motel’s parking lot. The smell of burning rubber fills your nostrils. Allison braces herself against the door, Luther’s head smacks into Diego’s, and Five hollers, “HOLY SHIT—FUCKER!”

The Corolla comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of the parking lot. You see the tiny blue car parked by the donut shop earlier. “That’s—that’s them—” You lurch out of the car to find the room, but the moment you unbuckle yourself and open the door, you fall flat on your face.

“Oh no,” you state. “That drive paralyzed me.”

Five teleports beside you and crouches. He smirks. “Well, at least you didn’t shit your pants like Diego.”

“I didn’t shit my pants!” comes an immediate yell.

He hauls you upright with a groan. “Jeez—Eight, what’d you eat for breakfast, a bowling ball? Or did you just drink concrete straight from the industrial tap?”

“Don’t make fun of my density.”

“Let’s go.” Luther puts massive hands on your and Five’s shoulders. “Room thirty-two.”

Five jerks his shoulder away from Luther and deliberately straightens his blazer. You pat Luther’s hand. “Alright, idiots, here’s how it’s gonna work.” He begins stalking forward, and none of you have any choice but to follow him. “I’m gonna teleport in there and take down Hazel and Cha-Cha while you grab Klaus. It’s—”

The door to room thirty-two swings open and unleashes several rounds of bullets. They ricochet off the pavement. You throw Diego forward underneath the overhang the open walkway provides while Luther gives Allison more than enough cover. Five jumps to the staircase leading up to the room. Before you can make it to the overhang, a bullet snaps against your browbone, and you hear the sound of glass piercing.

Slowly, like a horror unveiling, you turn back to your sweet 2008 Corolla, one of your few true joys, your radio jam station, your sweet baby gray, your rescue mobile, with a shattered driver’s window.

You’re tired. You’re so tired and done and you did _not_ eat all the donuts you wanted to eat.

More bullets go off, but this time inside the hotel room. While you mourned your car, Diego made his way up the stairs, and he stood with his back to the wall beside the door. A second later, he throws one of his knives into the room. It’s followed by a shout and then a female voice going, “You _cannot_ be for real!”

With the gunfire redirected, Luther and Allison race up the stairs. He goes into the room with Diego; Allison stays outside as backup, as a net. You breathe, breathe. This is for Klaus. He needs the donuts sitting on the kitchen table. He needs you.

As if on cue, Klaus comes out in Luther’s arms, shrieking dramatically. He clutches a briefcase to his chest. Hazel, however, manages to make it past Five and Diego, and he barrels into Luther’s back. The sudden shove causes Luther to stumble. Klaus goes flying from his arms and over the railing. His screams become less dramatic and much more real.

“Catch me, Eightie!”

You will, of course, but you are not…soft and squishy.

Klaus collides with you, and even though he weighs eighty pounds soaking wet, there’s still enough force behind his fall to knock you onto the ground. _“Argh—_ my ribs! It’s like…being caught by the Statue of Liberty!”

“Oh, would you prefer the ground catching you instead?”

You stand up with Klaus half in your arms. He’s in bad, bad shape. One eye is sealed shut, blood streaks down half of his face, nails are missing, and he has rope burns streaked across his mostly naked body.

“They let me keep my underwear on, at least?” Klaus says with an attempt at a grin when he watches your face transform into an expressionless mask, but your gaze screams _fury._

“GRENADE!”

Diego’s voice breaks through the air. You shove Klaus behind you instinctively, and you see that Hazel and Cha-Cha have already made it down the walkway, battered and beaten but alive. Luther leaps from the walkway with Diego and Allison in tow a second later, and Five comes flying out last—he jumps and winds up beside you, barely missing the shaking explosion that rockets through the room. Glass and rubble rain down on. They rain like a thousand ringing bells on the pavement.

“Dirty move,” Diego pants. He wrenches himself free from Luther’s hold, but he’s sure to pat his brother’s arm all the same. Allison stays where she is with him.

Because of the explosion, your brain doesn’t register the pulsating, electrical sound underlying its noise.

“They rigged the room for the worst,” Five says. He brushes debris flakes from his hair. “Smart.”

Police sirens wail in the distance. You turn to make sure Klaus is okay—

 _No_.

“Klaus?” you call. A tremble trails in your voice. “Klaus? Klaus?”

“Where the hell is he?”

“Klaus! Klaus!”

“What happened to him, Eightie?”

“I don’t—”

“It must’ve been the briefcase,” Five cuts in rapidly. “It’s a time travel device. He must have accidentally used it. _Idiot!”_

“Where—where’d he go?” You start spinning on your heels like you’ll see Klaus again any second. Five grabs your arm.

“I don’t know.” For the current situation, his voice is surprisingly level and calm. “But we gotta go, Eight. Or the cops will be on our ass.”

“No. No, I’m staying—what if he shows up—”

“We _have_ to go. We’ll come back. I promise.”

You realize you’re nodding, although you shouldn’t be because Klaus _is gone he’s gone and he was right there and you had him in your arms you shouldn’t have let him go why did you let him go you let him go and he’s gone and he was right there and he’s gone now he’s gone and he must be so afraid._ You get back into the car with everyone else. Broken glass crunches under you. Absently, you punch out the rest of the glass from the window to make it look like it’s rolled down instead of gone.

Police cars race down the opposite side of the street. You pull off to the side like a good citizen and wait for them to pass.

Diego punches the back of your seat.

“Hey,” Allison mutters. “Hey.” She takes his hand. He lets her.

Your knuckles turn white.

“Where could he have gone?” Luther asks Five in the silence of road underneath tires. “Do you have any idea?”

“Not the slightest,” Five replies detachedly. “Think of all time and history strung out on a board, then throw a dart.”

It’s only because you’re driving that you don’t slam your head into the steering wheel, over and over, _you lost Klaus you lost Klaus he was right fucking there and he’s gone he’s gone like Five was gone like Ben—_

In the soundless lull, you hear Diego’s snap, and upon the break, he says, “You should have watched him, Eight.”

Five whips around in his seat to slap Diego across the face. You catch his wrist before he can meet his mark.

“Stop,” you say. The sweet lie of vacancy shapes your syllables. “I just need…I need silence. Please. Please be quiet.”

Although you feel Five’s gaze bear intently on you, he resettles into the seat.

You begin boxing away your pain before it can implode inside you like the grenade at the motel.

-

At the house, Vanya and Patch play a game of chess.

“I hope everything is alright,” Vanya says.

Patch makes a doubtful face. “Probably not, knowing them.”

Her dispatch then crackles through the air about shots being fired at the motel you went to get Klaus from. Patch scoffs, and it takes everything inside her to not jump up and head to the scene.

“See? Told you.”

-

You’re not the kind to disappear without telling anyone. That’s more Diego’s and Five’s and Klaus’ tactic. But, after you hug Vanya tight and tell her with your voice forcefully flat that Klaus slipped from you, that he’s somewhere out there all alone and afraid and you failed him, after she tells you back that you need to stop blaming yourself, you got him away from the Commission, you’ll get him back again, she goes to make you some tea in the kitchen. Luther calls for everyone to meet in the sitting room to decide how you’re all going to find Klaus again. Five says if he shows up, he’ll probably make his way back to the house. Unless, Diego counters, Hazel and Cha-Cha are waiting for him. Allison tersely tells him to zip it because you’re within earshot, and he should be more sensitive. No, unfortunately, says Five, he’s right, and while…

They continue talking. You go unnoticed while you slip out the door. You take Dad’s car instead of yours. It doesn’t reek of failure—just cold apathy from Dad’s lingering presence. You could use some cold right now.

Ever since Five came back, ever since all this shit started, you can’t close the box like you want. It’ll stay closed for a little while and you think you’re good, but one mention of something or a single comment or, worse, the absence of a comment, unlatches the lock without your permission. Then you’re choking on the contents. They flow into your chest, pressing against your heart and lungs, piercing and scratching and suffocating.

If you don’t find Klaus, you are going to lose it, and losing it means pain. Then you’ll die. You don’t mean to be dramatic. You don’t want to die. They all need so much taking care of still. They can’t afford you to be gone, especially not Five. He’d never recover. And Vanya could, might…it could break her, and your death would bring about the apocalypse.

You simultaneously tell yourself, just as you always have, that a person can’t die from emotional pain.

It doesn’t change a single thing.

You drive in silence back to the motel. When you arrive, you instead park by the building over and walk. The day warms. You see a few police cars, but no officers in the parking lot where you stood just about an hour ago. You can wait. Get a motel room, maybe, stay the night, watch, watch for Klaus because—

There’s a pulsing, a whirring, a gust of wind, and then, then, then…

_Klaus._

But something is wrong. Oh, something is terribly wrong.

He hunches over the briefcase, trembling. His hands are bloody. He wears different clothes, army clothes, no torture wounds, and he’s crying. _Who made him cry who did this to him where did he go?_

You start walking to him.

Klaus violently jumps when you place a tender hand on his shoulder. He spins, stuttering for air, shaking, and when he sees you, he whispers a single, cracked, “Eightie?”

The briefcase drops to the ground. You kick it aside with a foot as Klaus lunges into your arms. He openly sobs into your shoulder, wracking, heartbroken sounds that make you squeeze him tighter, tighter, tighter to make sure he doesn’t leave your embrace, he doesn’t have to, he doesn’t need to. Klaus can’t support himself in his unraveled state, so you do the supporting for him. Your eyes twist shut. Your throat burns. You don’t cry, but this is the first time in years where you’ve felt remotely close to it.

“I got you,” you whisper, and you say it even though you’re not sure Klaus can hear over the sound of his own cries. “I got you, okay? You’re here, Klaus. I got you.”

You’ve never been as strong as Luther; your invulnerability only goes so far, but the fortification allows you to pick Klaus up. He lets you. His arms wrap tightly around your neck, like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling. He smells of blood and gunpowder and jungle and sweat. You crouch down and snag the briefcase with your hand that is near Klaus’ knees. He’s so tall compared to you that his feet nearly drag across the pavement, but you heft him up high enough so it doesn’t happen.

If any police officer sees you packing Klaus away, you don’t get shouted at to come back and answer questions. It’s a short walk to the adjacent parking lot. Klaus keeps his head buried in the crook of your shoulder. He hasn’t stopped crying, and he involuntarily curls up into himself while you carry him. He’s in pain. Agony. The fact that you can’t do a single thing makes you furiously helpless.

Once you get to the car, you drop the briefcase and manage to open the door. You maneuver Klaus into the passenger’s seat and buckle him up; it’s not the first time you’ve had to put him into a car, before. You have been the one, after all, to rush him to the hospital in the wake of an overdose or alcohol poisoning.

Realizing where he is, Klaus sniffs and wipes his tears away with a bloodied hand. You toss the briefcase into the trunk, then get in and start the car. “I need a drink,” he brokenly tells you.

“How about McDonald’s instead?”

“…Yeah, I could do McDonald’s.”

The box in your chest closes for the moment. Although you need to put more inside later on, all you care about is the person whose hand you hold onto for dear life as you drive back to the house.

-

“It’s not here,” Cha-Cha exasperatedly sighs. The sound of laundry cycling in one of the motel’s dryer is too loud.

“The junkie must have took it in the chaos,” Hazel says.

“No shit! Any other brilliant insights you wanna throw at me? Or you gonna come up with another excuse as to why you went to that donut shop in the first place?”

“Hey, now, she _said_ it was neutral territory.”

“People _lie,_ stupid—and don’t even get me started again on how you talked to that toy tank at all—”

The _whoosh of_ the Commission’s pneumatic tube echoes in the locker beside Hazel. He opens it, and his stomach sinks when he sees the canister labeled: _urgent!_

Cha-Cha takes the can and unscrews it, then dumps the message into Hazel’s palm. He reads the contents. “Violation code 6870-4A, unauthorized round-trip travel to 1968. Explanation required.”

Hazel frustratedly gives the note to Cha-Cha and puts the canister back in the tube. “Shit, the junkie. What the hell does he think this is? A travel agency? _Damn it,_ Hazel.”

“I know. If we don’t get that case back soon, we’re screwed.”

“We wouldn’t be if you stuck to protocol and carried the briefcase with you!”

“Well, maybe if you carried it once in a while, we wouldn’t have this problem to begin with!” He raises his right hand as evidence. “My physical therapist isn’t even covered by insurance. You don’t hear me complaining!”

“Oh, oh, so this you suffering in silence—”

“Can we not do this now?”

 _“Fine._ We need to get back to that family compound and find that junkie.”

“Are you serious? We barely got out alive last time! You haven’t had to fight Eight! I have! It’s like getting hit with a steel beam, _and_ bullets don’t do a damn thing to her.”

“Stop whining about getting beat up by a kid.”

“No, no, no—she is not a kid.”

 _“A freak of nature,_ then,” Cha-Cha hisses. She lets out a sharp breath. “We can’t go back until we know what we’re dealing with. I’ll do some digging on the family while you look for that junkie. Maybe I can find the kid’s weakness. If we can get past her, we’ll have a better shot at getting the briefcase _and_ killing Five. Something’s gotta hurt her.”

As soon as Cha-Cha finishes speaking, they’re surprised by another sound of the pneumatic tube. They stare at each other, shocked and suspicious. Hazel slowly opens the same locker back up and removes a different tube.

Cha-Cha snatches it from him with a muttered, “Give it here.” She takes the rolled paper out and drops the canister on the ground, too impatient to put it back in the tube.

As she reads the contents, her expression twists into angered confusion. She works her lower jaw. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Hazel takes the note from Cha-Cha and reads it himself. The neat, type-written sentences make his stomach fall to the floor.

“Well,” he sighs unenthusiastically, “it makes sense, getting screwed over by the higher-ups again. I’m not even surprised.”

The two assassins let the new missive sink in, and Hazel thinks to himself that he needs another donut to make it through the day.

_Kill order on Five Hargreeves rescinded.  
Kill Eight Hargreeves._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=v76hyrB9SZ-4Yucy4tXbhA)


	20. the clock says it's time to close now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Soul Kitchen"](https://open.spotify.com/track/2Xdc6qyaFBJZ8QW1KhpVci?si=SBGk1c-YR3OpsMj-Cc9YGA)

“Hey, Diego. Is your sister alright?”

“Huh?”

Patch gives him a flat stare. “Your sister. Eight. How is she doing?”

The house had burst into commotion upon Eight and Klaus’ return, but after of the yelling and questioning and hugging had abated, Eight took Klaus up to a room to calm down from whatever ordeal he had gone through, and she hadn’t been back down since.

“Fine, I guess? It’s Eight.” Diego shrugs. “She’s good.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“You don’t see it?”

“See what?” Frustration clips his tone.

Patch gives her head a small shake. She pats his shoulder. She needs to get back to work and work with the mess the Hargreeves leave behind wherever they go. The Lord _is_ testing her with this family. “You know, it might be good for you to check on _her_ instead of it always being the other way around.”

She goes to leave. “I’ll be back tonight, Hargreeves, so don’t do too much while I’m away.”

“You don’t have to come back,” Diego says, but it’s spoken with a smirk. “You can sit down at your desk and pretend everything you’ve been through hasn’t been cool.”

Patch reluctantly returns it with a smirk of her own. “It _hasn’t_ been cool,” she corrects. “It’s just made me see that Eight needs all the backup she can get.”

She throws a wave over her shoulder. “Go see if she’s alright, Diego.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will.”

Diego watches Patch until she walks from the foyer and is gone.

Mom, who sweeps goose feathers and chips of wood from the floor, says, “What a nice girl, son.”

“Ah, she’s alright.” More to himself, Diego mutters, “She’s alright.”

-

Vanya finds you back in your room, sitting in a chair facing the window. The sight of it conjures depressing memories of how she often found you after Five disappeared and Ben died. You used to sit in front of windows to dream. Now, you sit to forget, and if not forget, then to repress.

She keeps _telling_ you to go to a therapist.

“Hey,” Vanya quietly calls. “You wanna go home?”

You hum, body relaxing somewhat as you shift back into this reality. “I want to make sure Klaus is okay.”

“Allison is watching over him. She’ll call us if anything happens, but he’s settled down, now.” Vanya pauses. “I heard…he got stuck in Vietnam.”

“Yeah.”

“He came back, Eightie. You didn’t lose him.”

“He went to war.”

She purses her lips. “Look, I…I think we should go home. I want you to come home with me. Please.”

Vanya phrases it in a way that seems to be _asking_ you to come, that _she_ is the one who needs you by her side. It usually does the trick.

You turn, expression pensive. “Vanya, there’s…there is something we need to talk to you about. I need to talk to you about. It’s…it’s important. It’s about the apocalypse.”

“Yeah, well,” Vanya replies, a smile flickering across her lips, “we have a few days, right? I’m sure it can wait for just a little bit.”

She gestures for you to join her. “Come on.”

You don’t move for a moment, but Vanya keeps a neutral but insistent gaze. You always test how strong she’s being about something before deciding, testing to see if she has a chance at arguing or not. Vanya keeps up her side, however, and you give in without much of a fight. You’re tired. You don’t get bags under your eyes, but she can see it in your shoulders, your palms, your posture.

With a light groan, you stand up and walk to Vanya. She easily puts her arms around you and gives you a hug you’ve desperately been needing, it seems. The tension in your body physically leaves the longer Vanya keeps you right where you are. She rubs your back like it’ll help get rid of the burdens you’ve been packing on ever since Five returned.

You both make your way down to the foyer. Vanya pats her pocket, curses under breath, and says to you, “Hey, I’ll meet you out in the car. I forgot my wallet in the kitchen.”

“Alright.”

While she walks away, you head outside and begin the process of sweeping glass shards from the driver’s seat. Then you get in and stare out the window, one eye fluttering shut in defiance of staying awake.

Five catches Vanya in the kitchen as he’s chugging some coffee and sees her intent to leave. He makes a noise. “Whoa, whoa, hey, where’re you going, Vanya? We _just_ all got under the same roof again!”

“I’m taking Eight back to our place,” Vanya evenly replies, sure not to meet Five’s scornful eyes. “She needs a break.”

“A break? _A break?_ I hate to _break_ it to you, but now’s not the time for a break! We have—” He clenches his fist and brings it down onto an invisible podium. _“Things_ to discuss! As a family! Can’t be a family without Eight here, now can it?”

“That’s exactly the problem. You do see that, right?” Vanya’s voice suddenly becomes severe. Or, as severe as it can be for Vanya. Five pauses. She rolls her head and glances at the exit. She should just leave, but her defense of you gets the best of her. “It’s not healthy that Eight keeps _all_ of us together. Ever since you came back, she’s been running herself ragged trying to make you happy, trying to save the world, trying to save us, trying to do everything because she thinks it’s her responsibility.”

“It is,” Five automatically replies, but a sinking, guilty sensation starts to form in his stomach. “It’s _Eight,_ Vanya. That’s what she’s always done. That’s what she _likes_ to do.”

“You…you haven’t been around for years, Five,” Vanya says. She slips her wallet into her back pocket. “You didn’t get to watch what I did. What I still do. And, honestly, I’m not sure you even saw it when we were growing up. Eight being the constant support isn’t always good for her. She wants everyone to feel like they can rely on her because she loves all of us, and, and…and that’s great. But only to a certain extent, you know? Because she’s, she’s a sponge, in a way. She absorbs everybody’s problems and pains and keeps it there.”

Five listens to Vanya with an acknowledging frown. She looks anywhere but directly at him.

“Eight never sets any emotional boundaries for herself, especially not with _you._ And now that you’re back, she’ll do more than anything for you, and it’ll make her have a breakdown. You…already saw what a bit of that looks like.”

Vanya puts her hands in the pockets of her jacket. The corner of her mouth pinches, revealing the small dimple on the side of her cheek. “I don’t…want anything to happen like when Ben died.”

“What happened when Ben died?” Five asks, gentle. Vanya doesn’t immediately respond. He walks around the kitchen table to be closer to her. His voice lowers more. “Vanya,” he says just above a whisper, and its non-threatening tone breaks her heart and fills it with love at once. “What happened to Eight when Ben died?”

Her dark brown eyes finally flicker to him. She shakes her head once. Vanya can feel the cold floor underneath her feet, the stillness in the early hours of morning, where the sun hasn’t fully risen, basking the hall she walks through in flat gray. She can hear the creaking of floorboards as she walks up the stairs to the attic, and her hands shake because she’s scared. Not for herself, but for you, for what she’ll see when she reaches the top.

You made her swear she wouldn’t tell anybody. You didn’t want them to worry. Worrying is your job, after all.

 _I try my best not to let her slip away, either. She almost did once before._ Vanya had written the single line in her book, and she never expounded on what it meant. Five was left to wrack his brains on what it implied. When he came to a possible answer, he didn’t want to accept it. No. It was _you._ Eight. You would never.

Fear, like a bird spreading its wings for flight, rises in Five’s chest.

“She took on too much,” Vanya only says. She ran out of her pills, so her heart begins to race uncomfortably. “And I don’t want to see it happen again. Just…let her breathe, Five.” Vanya laughs to herself a little. “Let her get some real food in her, too.”

“She’s eaten real food,” Five mutters somewhat meekly.

Vanya’s brow raises. “Uh huh, sure,” she deadpans. “Like what? Zebra Cakes and donuts and energy drinks and junk food?”

“We had…breakfast the other day. Mom made it. Sandwiches, too.”

“Oh, I see. Got me there.”

“Since when did you start being sarcastic?”

She shrugs with a small smirk. Five smiles a bit in spite of his guilt.

“We’ll be back this evening, Five. Then whatever it is we need to talk about, we will.”

Five watches Vanya leave, and to himself and his coffee, he sourly says, “Knowing this family, I highly doubt that.”

Vanya walks out to the car where you’re waiting. She gets in, and the two of you drive back to the apartment with your broken window letting in cold spring air.

You have someone watching out for you as best she can. Vanya doesn’t believe she will ever be perfect at it, but there are moments when she feels like she’s done the right thing.

This is one of those moments.

-

With Eight and Vanya gone, the Hargreeves aren’t sure what to do with themselves. There’s always Hazel and Cha-Cha to worry about, but chances of them attacking the house again are low. Allison, charged by Vanya with watching and protecting Klaus while you’re away, listens to him talk about what happened in the time travel. In the middle of making some weak joke, the door opens, and Luther steps in.

“Sorry, was I…interrupting?”

“Not at all, big guy,” Klaus says with a wave. Allison smiles at Luther. “Just telling Allison here about my heroic efforts to shit in the middle of a typhoon.”

“It’s very compelling,” Allison chuckles. Luther awkwardly sits down.

“Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Klaus pauses, trying to gauge Luther’s intentions, but he quickly gives up. “Anyway, so there I was, my pants in one hand and a roll of soggy toilet paper in the other—”

Diego knocks on the door frame. “Hey,” he gruffly says. He saunters in and takes a seat in a chair. “Eudora left. I got nothing else to do.”

“Will she be okay?” Allison asks. “She got shot.”

“Ah, she’ll be fine. It’s Eudora. And besides, it’s not like I could stop her.”

The three others murmur in agreement.

Klaus goes on, only a _tiny_ bit excited to have an audience. “Then, when I was making my way out, I tripped and fell _face first_ into mud—”

Five walks in. “Don’t let me stop you,” he says mildly. “By the way, how’s the side effects? They wearing off?”

“I’m still a little itchy,” Klaus says with a shudder. “Sweaty, too—also, is it _normal_ for my balls to be this tingly? I mean, some tingling is normal, but I’m almost worried.”

“I’ll get you a cream if it becomes a problem,” Five snips, but it has humor to it. Klaus puts his hands together in thanks. Five settles beside Allison, legs stretching outward. He turns his attention to Klaus expectantly.

Right. Klaus was telling a story. Right. Wow. He opens his mouth, but for once in his life, words don’t naturally spew forth.

“Yeah,” Diego sighs, idly twirling a knife. “It’s weird without her.”

Everybody awkwardly agrees without responding.

Five, surprisingly, lets out an exhale akin to a laugh. Vanya’s words still haven’t left him, and it throws a wrench in his understanding of the world, of you. “We’re kinda pathetic, aren’t we?”

“At least you have the decency to include yourself,” Allison says with a small, wry smile. Five halfheartedly waves her off.

Ben tells Klaus, “Maybe this is a _good_ thing. You can try being nice to each other on your own.”

“Ben says he’s glad Eight is gone,” Klaus lies. Allison snorts. Ben glares at him.

“I _highly_ doubt that,” says Luther.

Klaus doesn’t have the energy to keep going, so he just makes a face and mutters, “Alright, alright.”

“Tell them about Dave,” Ben says much more gently. “Come on, it’ll help.”

“Shut up. I don’t wanna talk about Dave.”

“Who’s Dave?” asks Allison. Klaus hisses, which turns into a groan.

“Nobody.” But the single description makes his heart twist with such grief that he can’t hide the visible effect it has on him. “No one— _shit.”_

He’s crying again. Discomfort and concern grow; this is _Klaus._ He doesn’t cry because his emotional depth is a shallow pond, because he’s all jokes and laughs.

Diego shifts uncomfortably. He gives Luther a look and mouths, _“Do something, Number One.”_

Luther rapidly mouths back, _“You do something.”_

Five beats them to a response before they could make things worse by saying something idiotic.

“He was someone special to you,” he says plainly.

Klaus manages a watery laugh and rubs away tears. “You could…say that, yeah.”

“Did you meet him in Vietnam?” Allison follows up.

“I did. Dave…Dave Katz.”

He tugs the dog tags around his neck from his shirt, which causes makes the Hargreeves realize what happened to this Dave in Vietnam.

Diego says the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m sorry, bro.”

He gets a squinted look from Allison, basically telling him, _Can you sound any less sensitive?_

“It’s fine,” Klaus automatically says. Then, after a moment, he softly shudders. He can hear the sound of gunfire and helicopters and bombs and shouting and Dave dying in his arms. “Actually, guys, it’s…shit, it’s not fine.”

Klaus already mentioned Dave to you when you drove him home with McDonald’s in his lap. All he managed to get out was his name, then he was sobbing into his chicken nuggets. You had brushed the back of his head until the fit subsided. So this…this is a little better?

“Well…” Luther says slowly. Even though he’s supposed to be the leader, he never quite got the sensitive emotional trait down well with everyone else besides Allison. That had always been…your department. But he doesn’t like seeing his wreck of a brother in an even worse state that’s _not_ due to drugs or alcohol, so he gives it his best shot by asking himself how you would speak. “Do you wanna, um, tell us about it?”

After a hard moment of staring at Luther, Klaus laughs once. When nobody laughs with him, he becomes confused with a hint of suspicion. “Wait a minute,” he drawls, “what are you all trying to do?”

“They’re trying to be there for you,” Ben answers. Klaus turns to him in disbelief.

_“Really?”_

He shifts back. “Well, _this_ is a surprise!”

“Come on, Klaus,” Allison says. She mildly slaps his leg with the back of her hand. “I know…I know Eight isn’t here, but, I mean, we are.”

“But, but,” Klaus stutters, “but don’t you have more important things to do than worry about than little ol’ me?”

“Obviously,” says Five, and Klaus makes a petulant face at him. “But,” he continues, “it seems we’ve got some downtime, and you could use some other emotionally underdeveloped people to listen to your problems.”

 _“Not_ problems,” Allison says. “Not problems, Klaus. You’re not a problem.”

“Some of the time,” Diego murmurs not-so-quietly under his breath. Luther elbows him. “Ow!”

“Are you missing the part of your brain that stops you from saying stupid things?” Allison questions with a condescending expression.

“Oh—what, you were all thinking it!”

“Thinking and speaking are two different things,” Luther says with a touch too much rationalism in his tone.

“Thanks, Spaceboy, real helpful, why don’t you use that advice next time you accuse one of us of murdering Dad.”

“Hey, idiots,” Five puts in, “can you two not be the center of attention for _five minutes?”_

“Shut up, Five,” Luther and Diego say in unison.

“They’re really trying, aren’t they?” Klaus says to Ben quietly enough to keep the conversation between them.

Ben smiles. “Yeah. It’s kinda gross.”

“It really is.”

Klaus sprawls out on the couch and gets comfortable. He really _should_ have a drink for this, but oh well. Thus is life.

“His name was Dave Katz,” Klaus announces over the bickering. Everyone quiets. He leans his head back against the couch arm and stares at the old mansion ceiling. Though it wrenches the remains of his heart out from his war-torn chest, his voice is warm when he says, “And he was the only other person I loved more than myself.”

They start to listen.

-

“Hey, Leonard. I…oh, that’s sweet of you. I would love to but…but yeah, I need to watch over my sister. She’s had a rough day, and I don’t want to leave her alone. Is that alright? Thank you so much. I’m so sorry, I would love to meet up with you, but I’ll have to take that raincheck. Yeah, yeah, you can pick a fancy place because of it. Hm? No, I’m just gonna step out for a refill on my meds. It’s like a twenty-minute walk. Yes, yes, I will be careful, jeez. Okay, I’ll talk to you later, and I’ll tell her you said that. Okay. Bye.”

-

You briefly wake up on the couch to the sound of Vanya quietly opening and closing the door. She told you before you crashed that her meds had run out—which is weird because Vanya never runs out of her meds.

If you were more awake, the information would have sent an alarm off in your thick head.

You’re not sure how long you drift after Vanya leaves, but you wake up when you hear a polite knock on the door. You’re half-tempted to ignore it, but the hospitality instinct gets the better of you, so you roll up off the couch. Eyes mostly shut, you stumble through the door, unlock it, and see who stands on the other side.

A spray bursts in front of your face, and when you choke it in, burning pain pain pain pain _pain **pain pain PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN SO MUCH PAIN SO MUCH—**_

You topple backward, falling into the nightstand beside the couch. You can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t think can’t feel just pain it’s crawling wriggling writhing and you’re dying fuck fuck fuck you’re dying you’re dying you’re dying.

“Oh, no,” a light male voice coos in a parody of concern. You don’t recognize who it could be. “You don’t look so good, Number Eight. Are you in pain? Does it hurt? We need to get you to the hospital.”

The numbness that sears your face tingles down into your limbs. Where’s Vanya? Where’s Vanya where’s Vanya where’s Five they’ll come they’ll all come and save you Vanya will save you she’ll hold your hand where’s her hand black tinges your blurry vision you’re dying—

“Shh, breathe, Eightie, it’ll be okay.” A hand cradles the back of your spasming neck to keep your head from thumping wildly against the floor. “I know just what will fix this, alright? Leave it to me. Vanya thinks she’s the one who should be taking care of you, but do you realize what that does? That means I can’t spend time with Vanya, and she is…so…important to me.”

Fire is in your lungs in your throat in your skull and you can’t have eyes can you no eyes because you can’t see it’s all black it’s—it’s—you can’t breathe you can’t breathe _you can’t breathe!_

You’re lifted off the ground with a grunt, which is followed by a laugh. “Oh, he wasn’t lying, was he? You are _quite_ heavier than you look. But I gotcha.”

Survival kicks in despite the looming death because you can’t die you have to be there you have to save the world you, you, you, Vanya—You begin thrashing to get free from his arms. Light you force to the surface builds in your body and sparks outward with a burst of heat, but then it’s gone, gone. You don’t have the strength to maintain it.

He drops you and curses. You most likely scalded him. With the opportunity to escape, you start crawling toward the door despite being blinded with what little feeling you have left.

Then a hand grips your hair and wrenches your head back. Another spray jets into your mouth and nose and eyes, and it’s too much, too much, too fucking much.

Your forehead hits the floor. You choke on the acrid poison burning in your mouth. Blood and bone and steel turn to cotton.

The last thing you think before you’re swallowed up by death is your family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=7oR2IjEnQaOoeIVAhZVNZw)


	21. my life is sunshine, lollipops and rainbows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0AZb6ryK8LsFcvY1jWHO61?si=8xz5YpL9Q-WqKHDiEp9hZQ)

“Oh, shit, Hazel. Look.”

Cha-Cha points to the entrance of your apartment. It didn’t take much to figure out where you lived; they just found your sister’s address in the phonebook and connected her comment about the two of you living together in her tell-all autobiography.

Reading the bits and pieces he did hadn’t done anything good for Hazel. He never liked knowing their targets were decent people.

Which is why outrage fills him upon seeing a strange man carry you to his truck that’s parked outside. He glances around to make sure nobody in the immediate area is watching him, and then he puts you into the passenger’s seat. He acts like he’s trying to help you, assist you, concerned for you, but Hazel has the refined ability to recognize a killer when he sees one.

This man plans to do something bad to you.

Cha-Cha, noting the exact same thing, tosses the autobiography into the backseat. “Well, damn,” she says with a chuckle. “Guess somebody wants to do our job for us.”

“We should follow him,” Hazel says. He covers the concern in his voice, but Cha-Cha still questions him.

“Why? Dude’s on a mission.”

“Well, it would be bad if we immediately assume that he can do the job himself. What if she gets away somehow? Or he tries to kill her and can’t? We need to at least make sure whatever he does is final.”

“Hm. Yeah, you’re right. Okay. Then, once we’re done, we can hunt down that damn druggie.”

Hazel pulls onto the road behind the truck with you and the man inside it. He shouldn’t be feeling this way about a target, but lately, he’s been feeling all sorts of ways that are, objectively, off-putting. Agnes and her donuts, the end of the world, Five going rogue for his family, you and your determination about stopping the inevitable, the increasing ridiculousness of the Commission’s demands…

It makes him start to dream. That’s a dangerous thing to do in his line of work.

“I just wanna know how he took her down,” Cha-Cha says. She idly smooths her hair. “Maybe we’ll torture him to find out? Blow off some steam?”

“Yeah, we could do that.”

If your family doesn’t get to him before they do, of course.

-

“Vanya? Vanya, slow down, I can’t— _what?_ Eight? She’s been—oh my god—Vanya, hey, Vanya, honey, just listen, breathe, you gotta, hey—”

Five rips the phone from Allison’s hands. She lets him, however, because tears fill her eyes, and she has to brace herself against the wall to compose herself. Luther swoops in to check on her, but she can’t talk because of the terror in her throat. Diego, Klaus, and Ben also circle around the phone.

Before Five can put the phone to his ear, he hears Vanya’s panicked voice on the other side. Shit.

“Vanya.” His tone is crisp and cut. “Talk to me.”

 _“It—it’s Eight I came home and, and I just got my meds I had just stepped out and the door was open a-and the room was trashed and I couldn’t find Eight anywhere—_ ” Vanya harshly sobs. Five hears another crash in the room, like a low shaking. He grits his teeth together and shoots everyone else a forlorn look. _“And I think someone took her! Someone took Eight! You were right, you were right, we should have stayed. Someone took Eight an—and—and I don’t—I don’t—”_

“Listen to me, Vanya,” Five calmly speaks, but underneath he’s a tangled ball of nerves. It’s a struggle not to sound outright angry due to fear. “You _need_ to calm down. Do you have your pills?”

_“Y-yeah, yeah.”_

“Good. Take one. You need to take one right now. Did you take one?”

_“I did.”_

“That’s good. Now, you have to focus.”

_“The—the whole house is shaking, Five, Five, the whole—I don’t know—”_

“Vanya.” Five braces himself against the wall with a hand. Sweat beads on his brow. This is not, this isn’t how it’s supposed _to go._ His eyes flutter shut, and it takes everything in Five to follow his own advice and stay calm. He has to imagine you saying it instead of him to get the inflection right, the emotion. “Those are your powers.”

The silence on the other end is excruciating. Five can’t understand how you like it so much. He had to deal with silence for four decades, and he hated every damn moment of it.

Diego makes halting gestures with Luther. Allison doesn’t do anything. Klaus throws his hands up exasperatedly.

_“…What?”_

“You’ve never been ordinary, Vanya.”

Shit, this is supposed to be _you_ saying this, not him. There’s a good chance Five will just make it all worse.

But he goes on. “That’s what we needed to tell you.” Five exhales and corrects himself. _“I_ needed to tell you. I’m sorry.”

_“No. No, that’s not…possible.”_

“It is.”

The persistent rumbling on the other end fades. Five imagines it only retreats because of shock.

“Now, we will explain everything when we get you. I promise. But for now, lock your door, keep breathing, and wait for the medicine to kick in. We’ll be there as fast as we can. Does that sound good?”

No, obviously not.

 _“Yeah.”_ Vanya’s voice comes out so quietly that Five wouldn’t have heard her if there had been any noise on either of their sides.

“I’ll see you soon, then.” Shit, he does _not_ know how to end this phone call. “Hang tight, Vanya.”

_“O…okay.”_

Five forcefully restrains himself from slamming the phone back down. Once it clicks, he scowls.

“What were you _thinking?”_ Diego yells. “Just—just telling her? Like that?”

“She was going to bring her entire apartment down on herself,” Five replies with his signature sneer. “And she might do it again if we don’t get to her. Someone took Eight.”

Klaus, Diego, and Luther are startled by the information. Five’s fists clench inside his pockets. A look of pure rage that doesn’t naturally fit on a teenager’s face overcomes him. The grin he wears makes it more disconcerting.

_“And I’m going to make them pay.”_

-

You awake from death to the sound of dirt being shoveled.

“…and, well, I always like my milk, you know? So, when you did that commercial for the, the, oh, what was it? The USDA? Something like that, anyway—when you did that commercial saying if kids drank enough milk, they could have bones as strong as yours, I believed it! I drank five cups of milk every day for, like, months. Then I thought, hey, I should test it out! I went out back and punched a tree as hard as I could.” Short, snorting laughter. “And guess what? Didn’t work. Broke my hand. Ah, I was a silly kid, believing in things I shouldn’t have.”

The blue of a tarp lines your peripherals. You see fresh dirt directly in front of you, inches from your nose, which is raw and burning. The presence of pain in your nose and throat and eyes and mouth makes you squirm. A small wheeze escapes past your lips. You’re lying flat on your stomach, and your hands are bound behind you with multiple zip ties. You could possibly break through them, but in your position and state, all you can do is weakly fidget.

The pain makes you want to _scream._ It won’t go away, won’t go away, and it’s going to make you go _fucking insane_ if it doesn’t stop.

Your eyes strain to see past the tarp and to the man, Vanya’s creepy, apocalypse-triggering boyfriend presumably, who’s happily chatting away. You can see his feet, hear him moving on the thawing spring earth, glimpse khakis—but you can’t see his face.

However, you do realize what he’s going to do to you.

You thrash more because your throat is so bloody and tongue so swollen you can’t possibly cry out. It is blood, isn’t it? That copper taste. It’s thicker than you imagined, like melted ice cream. You’ve never had your own blood in your mouth. It tastes like copper, copper and pain and death.

“Vanya wrote about your dad sinking you to the bottom of the ocean,” he, the creep, Leonard says. A shovel sinks into dirt, and a second later, you feel it heavily sprinkle on your back, clattering on the tarp. “How crazy that must have been! And, well, I’ll let you in on a little secret—your dad theorized how you would react to poison in your system, but he never could bring himself to test it because he was afraid your body would have an extremely _adverse reaction_ to the pain a foreign substance caused. I mean, that whole period thing that happened to you as a kid? That must’ve been awful! Your dad didn’t want to accidentally kill you, and, and it’s funny to me, you know? The Shield can actually be so weak. But _I_ continued the research your dad couldn’t. Me. And I think I’ve made a breakthrough!”

More dirt, more weight.

“I have a question, Eightie. Why don’t you glow anymore? You kinda did before, but it only lasted a moment. You’re weaker. It’s almost as if…you want to be. But no, that’s strange.”

Dirt falls through the tarp and onto your face. You have a steady layer on you.

“Your dad could never quite figure out how much pressure you could withstand—and for how long. Since I don’t have a boat and an iron ball to help him find the answer, well, I figured this was the second-best thing. I dug a pretty nice hole if I say so myself, even with you burning my hands. That wasn’t very nice.”

Light speckles through the black earth mostly covering your vision. Earth coats your sensitive face and grinds into the chafed skin. The tarp gives you a bit of room to breathe, but you can distinctly imagine how all the weight will affect the ability. Not to mention that you _will_ run out of oxygen covered up with six feet of dirt. You lack Diego's ability to go forever without breathing.

Are you going to die?

Huh.

You should fight back in some way, think of a plan to escape. Dad would be disappointed in you for just giving up. Then again, Dad would always be disappointed. You shouldn’t have gotten kidnapped in the first place. Guess you have to thank him for not poisoning you, though. He wasn’t _totally_ monstrous. You can hear the distinct severity in his tone as he says, _“You will allow this to be your demise? Have you learned nothing? Must you continue to fail to protect your team, Number Eight? These selfish flaws will not stand.”_

The boyfriend must have Dad’s book. That was how he discovered Vanya’s powers.

“Goodnight, Eightie,” he calls. “Sleep well.”

Black. The shovel digs, and dirt thumps. 

_Dig, thump. Dig, thump. Dig, thump. Dig, thump. Dig, thump. Dig, thump. Dig, thump. Dig, thump._

You are swallowed up, and when you can hear nothing but your own heartbeat and rapid breathing, feel nothing but pressure and pain, you let the silence in.

-

“Dang,” Cha-Cha comments. “That’s cold, even by our standards.”

Their car is parked at a distance just on the crest of a hill, making it easy for them to watch you be buried alive but hard to see by the man burying you in the middle of a damp field covered in withered grass. His unhinged determination fueled the digging, which would have tired even Hazel.

“Yeah, well, can’t kill her outright,” he says. “So this is the next best thing.”

“You think she’ll suffocate?”

“Maybe. I honestly have no idea. If she doesn’t, guess she’ll just be stuck there.”

Hazel believes it to be a very cruel fate.

“Why does he even want her?” Cha-Cha asks. “I don’t know, man, this is kinda weird.”

“It is,” he agrees.

“Should we report that Eight has been eliminated? Or is that pushing the meaning of the word _eliminated_ too much? ‘Cause, I mean, technically she’s out-of-commission. The extent of her death is just…unknown.”

Hazel things hard on the situation. A plan starts to form. It’s…not great, honestly, but he feels this new kind of desperation in him, this new want for a world outside of this car and shitty motel rooms and blood-stained clothes.

He thinks of Agnes and the smile she gets when she talks about donuts, and he knows he’s a man in trouble.

“I think we should,” he says. Cha-Cha pumps her fist in victory. “That way, we can focus on getting our briefcase back. If we run into her family, we’ll use the location of her body as leverage.”

“That little shit Five is smart, though,” says Cha-Cha. “He won’t give us the briefcase until we show him where Eight is.”

“We can force him into it. He can threaten us all he likes, but if we die, then so does the opportunity to find Eight. Besides,” Hazel adds, “Five doesn’t know the kill order on him has been lifted. Worst comes to worst, we can tell him we’ll trade his life for hers. Something along those lines.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can make that work,” Cha-Cha nods. “And when we get our briefcase back, we’ll kill them before they can dig up Eight. If we say she’s been eliminated, it has to be a permanent situation.”

“Agreed.”

Hazel isn’t sure whether he’s lying or not.

-

When the Hargreeves reach Vanya’s apartment, they approach carefully, afraid that one misstep will trigger the apocalypse.

Then, when Vanya opens the door for them, tears glistening on her cheeks, body trembling, the cautious treading goes out the window.

Allison wraps Vanya up in her arms. Instantly, she breaks down. While Allison holds her, the others take in the untouched crime scene. Diego recognizes it well.

“No forced entry,” he mutters, and Luther nods.

“Yeah, that’s what I saw. Eight might have known them?”

“Or she didn’t check,” Five says. “She might have thought it was one of us.”

“I swear, if those masked _assholes_ took Eightie right after they took me, I’m gonna tell them to get more original ideas!” Klaus proclaims. He goes to Allison and Vanya and begins soothing his little apocalyptic sister by brushing her head with a hand.

Five clicks his tongue skeptically. “It could be Commission. But why would they target Eight so soon after horribly failing at corralling Klaus?”

“Who else could it be?” asks Luther.

“I don’t know,” Five admits with a frown. “But I have an idea, and I don’t like it.”

“We should have—I should have—stayed at the house—” Vanya chokes through uneven sobs. “It’s all my fault!”

None of them have seen Vanya in such a state. She never lashed out or threw tantrums. If she had been angry, she would run to her room and cry. If she had been sad, she would run to her room and cry. If she had been frustrated, she would, yes, run to her room and cry. Nobody saw her in the midst of a meltdown—if she ever had a complete meltdown like this. None of them can be sure. They checked on her afterward, of course, but it was always you who followed Vanya to her room.

They realize the oversight. It’s the same kind of reality slapping them in the face as the book she wrote.

 _Without Eight,_ Vanya had written, _I wondered if we could consider ourselves a real family at all. I suppose I’ll just have to wait and find out._

Well, the moment has arrived.

“Probably,” Five admits, but he says it without bite. “But now that it’s happened, the only thing we can do is get her back.”

He stands in the living room and sighs. When he picked up Vanya, he didn’t stay long enough to take in the living space. Now, though, he looks around and not only sees signs of her, but signs of you. Photos, record albums. Origami animals. Well-placed plants. Embroidered quotes and images.

If only you were here in person.

“Sit down, Vanya,” Five says, glancing back at her. He manages a tight smile, the kind you’d give when you wanted to show both concern and care. He hopes he gets it right. She haltingly nods, then moves with Allison down to the couch. Klaus (and most likely Ben) sits on the other side of Vanya. Diego and Luther fan out on the left and right with Luther near the window and Diego near the kitchen. Diego sits down on a stool. Luther _attempts_ to sit down in a chair, but it groans to the point of breakage, so he winces apologetically and stands back up.

Five puts both hands in his pockets, lips pursed to the point where his dimples appear. “Well,” he says bluntly, “there’s no way to sugarcoat this, Vanya. You have powers. You’ve always had powers. Dad apparently made you forget you had them, then made you take pills to keep them suppressed. Pogo said it was some type of sound manipulation power. But it’s strong.”

He thinks of the apocalypse he trudged through for most of his life. “Very, very strong.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence, then Klaus sardonically says, “Well, you just _jumped_ right into that, didn’t you, Five?”

“Yeah,” Diego scowls, “what was it about a _careful approach?”_

“We don’t have the _time,”_ Five spits back. “If Eight were here, don’t you think I’d want her to say this instead? Not me!” His jaw clenches to deliberately lower his voice. “But she’s gone, and we need to find her, and we need your help, Vanya.”

She stares back at Five, numb. “I…I don’t…have _powers,_ Five.”

“You do,” Allison says. Guilt gnaws on her face. She turns Vanya to her, and Five lets out a breath at not being the sole speaker of an unpleasant topic.

Taking Vanya’s hands, a thumb runs over the scarred skin left behind from your light. It’s a sign of what Vanya did that night, of how she saved you. Five clings to that thought. Vanya saved you. She is not solely capable of destruction.

“Vanya, when…when we were kids, do you remember Dad quarantining you because you were…sick?”

She nods once, a nervous jerk. Allison wets her lips.

“You weren’t, you weren’t sick. He locked you up until he could decide what to do with you. Then…one day, he asked me to come with him down to the basement where he had you.” Allison’s eyelids flutter as tears well up. “He asked me, Vanya, he asked me to…rumor you. Rumor you into believing you were ordinary.”

Her brows scrunch in disbelief, mouth parting to suck in a tiny, ragged gasp.

“No. No, no. That’s…”

Allison puts her shaking hand to Vanya’s cheek with enough pressure that shows her own love, her own fear, her own disruption.

“It’s true, Vanya. I remember it. Pogo…Pogo also told us it was true. Dad made him keep it secret. Vanya, we, we were so _young._ We were barely more than toddlers, but—I’m so sorry, Vanya. You were never ordinary. You’ve always been great, but Dad was too afraid of it to let you be, be whole and alive and true. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She hangs her head. Tears fall onto her dark jeans.

Vanya looks to the others.

“Did…” She swallows thickly. “Did the rest of you know?”

“We found out only a couple days ago,” Five replies. He senses that deep exhaustion in his bones, the exhaustion he tries to forget but resurfaces at the worst moments.

He turns to the mantle and examines the photos lining the top. Pictures of you and the family, moments he never got to have. You on a sunny beach with Vanya and Allison. Klaus beams with birthday cake smeared on his face. You and Vanya dressed in elegant black, a violin tucked underneath Vanya’s arm. Diego leaning against his car, intentionally trying to look naturally cool. You and Vanya eating burgers in your car with Diego holding up a fountain drink in the backseat. You standing with Luther’s arm around you in front of some unknown building, both grinning, while he wears his academy field outfit and you wear street clothes. Klaus and Diego asleep on your couch. You holding a book next to your face with a smile.

The only photo Five is truly in is one you must have taken from Pogo because you’re all standing on the steps of the academy with Dad, dressed in the same academy uniform he currently wears, unsmiling and serious. Vanya is missing from the photo.

There’s another one, one Allison must have taken that she gave to you—or you stole. It’s old. Allison and Luther sit in a booth at Griddy’s. The flash of the camera in an otherwise dark place washes out their beaming faces. From the corner, you have your head butting in to bomb the picture. Five can catch part of your grin, but it mostly resides in your crinkled eyes. Beside you, in the background, is a blur of his body. Five must have turned away at the last moment because he couldn’t be bothered with being photographed.

Five has missed your entire lives.

He doesn’t…want to miss any more.

“‘Protect Vanya,’” Five repeats. He turns back to her and keeps his eyes solely on her. “That’s what Eightie said right before she died. She was the only one left alive out of all of you in those beginning moments of the apocalypse. Your powers, Vanya, they—”

“Um, whoa, hey, let’s not be _too_ hasty,” Klaus interrupts once he realizes where Five is going. He gives a signature nervous laugh. “There’s a lot on Vanya’s plate already, right? Plus, plus, we need to find Eightie. Once we find her, we can…we can…”

Klaus leans forward, clutching both his stomach and head with each hand. When Vanya instinctively turns to make sure he’s okay, he weakly waves her off. “Don’t, uh, mind me. M-morphine withdrawals.”

“Great,” Diego mutters. “Just another thing we have to worry about.”

“Hey, I, I didn’t _ask_ to see the dead! And lemme tell you, Diego, there are _a lot_ of dead people in war. I had to keep sane somehow!”

They let Klaus’ admission sink in. He leans sideways and curls up on the couch with a pout. Diego forcefully gets up from his stool and goes to the kitchen. He yanks a drawer open, pulls out a dish towel, and soaks it in cold water. Then he comes back with it sloppily folded into a long rectangle and slaps it onto Klaus’ forehead.

“Ow—thank you, Diego.”

“Whatever.”

Vanya wipes the last of her tears away with the back of a sleeve. She hunches in on herself a little, like she’s trying to protect her heart from taking any more shocks. Or she’s trying to control her unfathomable powers. Five doesn’t get a good read.

“Why…would Dad do this to me?” she whispers brokenly.

Luther responding is a surprise on its own—his exact response comes as jolt to their systems.

“Because he’s an asshole, Vanya.”

Quiet. Then—Vanya snorts. It’s probably from the way Luther said it: still in his leaderlike voice but with an odd dose of realism. Also, he called Dad an asshole.

Klaus laughs and points. “Luther swooooore.”

Allison involuntarily grins, which passes to Vanya, then Diego, Five, and finally Luther himself. Their laughter is short-lived and rough, but it eases the tension, the sadness, the frustration. You would be proud of them functioning without their main mast.

Still, your absence is stark. As the laughter subsides, Vanya bounces her knee three times before clasping her hands together and looking at Five.

“So,” she says, “how are we going to get Eight back?”

 _We_. Just like it should have always been.

Five isn’t one for clichés, but it’s better late than never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=DELbqi2SRWaSEZfjb40F8g)


	22. i wanna make a supersonic man out of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Don't Stop Me Now"](https://open.spotify.com/track/7hQJA50XrCWABAu5v6QZ4i?si=6mzqd8rFSyyvomgvhoR4gw)

“Klaus.”

“No. No? No. I’m not doing it—no.”

“This isn’t about _you,_ moron,” Five scowls, “it’s about finding Eightie. We’re running out of time. Nobody _living_ saw her, but maybe somebody dead did.”

“You can do it,” Ben says. “For once in your life, do something for someone other than yourself.”

“I do things for other people _all_ the time,” he argues back.

“Name five times.”

“I can’t pull them from the top of my head! Name five times you weren’t annoying. Oh, wait, you _can’t.”_

“Klaus is talking to Ben,” Allison whispers to Vanya. She gets a tiny smile back from her sister.

“I…I know. I kinda figured it out a while ago. He doesn’t exactly keep his conversations quiet when he stays at our apartment, and there’s only one person I’ve ever heard him talk to like that.”

“Ohh, nice, so I _was_ basically the last one to find out about Ben.”

“Well—Allison.”

She pats Vanya’s knee with a teasing smile. “I’m just kidding.”

“Klaus,” says Luther, drawing him from the spiraling argument with Ben that wouldn’t get them anywhere. “We need you to do this. I know you hate using your powers, a-and you’re going through withdrawals right now, but I do know that Eight would have done anything to get you back from the Commission.”

“Don’t make me feel _guilty,_ Luther!”

“No, no, Luther’s right,” Diego says, and he shoots everyone a glare so they won’t point out him agreeing with Number One. “Klaus, you know Eightie—she _never_ speeds. She can be such a rube sometimes, honestly, but she sped for you. Like, almost-flipped-the-car sped.” When Klaus cringes from the facts, Diego digs his finger into the open wound of the truth to get his brother to squirm enough to do something. “And who was there when you came back to make sure you didn’t get taken again? To make sure _you_ were alright. Who was it? Hm?”

Klaus mutters something under his breath. Diego leans in with a mocking hand to his ear.

“What was that? Couldn’t quite catch it.”

“It was Eightie!” Klaus yells. “It was Eightie, alright?”

“Look, Klaus,” says Allison, “if you really don’t think you can do it, we’ll understand.”

Five scoffs. Allison shoots him a _will you quit?_ kind of glare. _“We_ will understand.”

“We will,” Vanya echoes in her soft voice. She hasn’t quite recovered from the revelation, but she’s slowly making her way back to them. As of right now, she hangs onto the emergency of finding you over everything else. Then, once you’re back, they can all deal with…everything else.

Vanya remembers the thrum in her heart made her feel so _powerful._ It scared her more than anything.

_What if Dad had good reason to hide her away?_

Dad’s an asshole, comes Luther’s voice in her head, and she tacks it to the forefront of her brain.

Klaus sweeps his nervous eyes over everyone crammed into the living room. They land on the mantle behind Five. He likes to think it’s always been a “fuck you” to Dad, who had a sole portrait of himself hanging above the fireplace and nothing else, cold and judging and disappointed at whoever made the mistake of glancing at it. Your mantle is an homage to the one thing Dad never cared about: family.

Shit. Shit. _Shit._

He leans forward and puts his head between his shaking knees. Grabbing his hair, Klaus blurts out, “Okay—let’s get this over with. Before I change my mind!”

Diego claps and hollers, “Yeah! That’s my bro!”

It makes Klaus grin through the fear.

He jolts upright, holds a prompt finger up, and begins heading out the door. “To me—wait!”

Klaus spins to the kitchen. He snatches the half-empty box of Zebra Cakes off the counter and holds it up in place of his finger. “For Eightie!”

“Wait, why can’t we do it in here?” Allison questions, but she follows Klaus out the door with the rest.

“Because there’s a ghost that likes to loiter outside of your apartment, and she _always_ asks me when was the last time I ate. She might have seen something.”

“Oh, well. Okay then!”

Klaus doesn’t mention what the old lady looks like. He downs a Zebra Cake (even though there’s a fair chance he’ll just puke afterward) and bursts out the front door of the small apartment building. The Hargreeves gather around him while he readies himself with a few warming-up exercises.

“You got this, Klaus,” Ben says. He crouches like a coach and Klaus is his underdog rookie boxer with a chance of winning the tournament. “You got this. Come on, Eightie is counting on us. On you.”

_“That’s so much responsibility!”_

“For once in your life, embrace the responsibility!”

“Alright, alright!”

Klaus clenches his fists and concentrates. Cold washes up his skin, which makes him want to instantly let go of the forming connection.

“Keep it up, Klaus, keep it up,” Ben supports.

“Would you…shut up?”

“No!”

He goes to say something back, but a sharp woman’s voice calls, “Young man! Have you eaten anything today? You’re so skinny you’ll disappear at any second!”

Klaus puts on a placid grin and turns. The cold blue numbing his fists recedes. “Hi…Gram-Gram.”

Gram-Gram the Ghost grins cheekily back. Half her skull has been caved in from being run over.

“Gram-Gram?” Luther whispers to Diego, who shrugs with an _I don’t know_ face.

“Let me cook something for you, eh? Come, come, we’ll put some meat on those bones.” She moves to the apartment door Klaus and everyone just came from.

“Wait, Gram-Gram, um, uh…” Klaus looks to Ben. He makes a _go on_ gesture with his hand. “Um, I was actually, well, wondering if you had seen my sister? Eight? The, the teenage girl? Looks serious a lot?”

“Ah! Yes, yes. I saw her, nice girl, always picking you up off the steps…” Gram-Gram’s smile disappears. “Sad song.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Klaus clasps his hands together and nervously bends sideways. Zebra Cake churns in his stomach. Gram-Gram’s blood soaks into her fine rose-printed blouse. He can see her brains. “Um, did, did anything _strange_ happen with her? Something today?”

Gram-Gram thinks for a moment—ghosts can hardly remember anything in a linear fashion about the world around them. He thinks Ben is different because he’s able to keep tethered to Klaus and talks often.

Then her eyes go wide. “Yes. Yes. Something bad, dear boy. Something _bad.”_ She holds up a fist in her fury. “I wanted to give that man a piece of my mind!”

“Well—” Klaus starts to make a joke, but Ben makes stopping motions. “Well, okay, so, so you did! You did see Eightie! M-my sister.”

Behind him, the others all let out audible sighs of relief.

“So, so she was taken?” Klaus goes on when Ben makes another motion to keep the conversation moving.

“Yes! She looked _ill._ Choking, barely awake, and, and this _man_ carried her out into his truck and put her in. But, son, he had this bad presence about him. Evil. Evil.”

“Okay! Okay, did this, um, man have a creepy mask? Was he tall? Big? Wearing a suit?”

Gram-Gram shakes what’s left of her head. “No. Real casual-dressed, khakis.”

“Ew,” Ben and Klaus both say to each other.

Klaus follows up with, “And where, which direction did they go in?”

Gram-Gram points up the road. Klaus mimics the signal to provide his siblings with an answer. “Talked about getting her to the hospital, but I don’t know of any hospitals that way.”

“No, no, there isn’t,” Klaus agrees. “And believe me, I’ve been to every hospital in the city.”

“Drove a truck, had a shovel and tarp in the back,” Gram-Gram helpfully mentions. “I snooped around a bit, nobody pays any mind to me.”

“A shovel and a tarp,” he repeats, turning to the rest and hissing. “That’s…not good.”

“Was it Hazel? Someone from the Commission?” Five asks, eyes alight with growing mania.

“No—it was a, a khaki-wearing creep,” Klaus says. Then, a moment later, he realizes the word he unintentionally used.

Everyone aside from Vanya all freeze, coming to the same conclusion as Klaus. They all have a heated, private conversation with only their eyes and body gestures. It lasts a couple of seconds.

“We better get moving,” says Five. He takes the keys to Dad’s car from his pocket and jangles them. “Thank your ghost.”

Klaus turns back to Gram-Gram. “Thank you so, _so_ much. We really appreciate it, _I_ appreciate it okay bye!”

He whips around and sprints to the car. “You did so great, Klaus!” Ben cheers beside him. He, too, is in an all-out sprint. They both dive into the car first. Five teleports into the driver’s seat, Diego gets into the passenger’s, Luther and Allison cram into the back, which forces Ben to slide into the trunk with a noise of protest, and, for the first time, Vanya joins the party. She climbs over Diego because he will _not_ sit right next to Five.

A wave of terrible dizziness overtakes Klaus. He presses his forehead to the window and takes deep, shuddering breaths. Something rattles beneath him, so an eye slides open to see a cup of small ice cubes. Luther holds it out to him with an awkward smile.

“I used to get vertigo on the moon sometimes. Ice would help. It, it was filtered from my urine, though, so…” He purses his lips. “So I guess this is even better?”

Klaus takes the cup and pops an ice cube in his mouth. “Thanks, Luther.”

Then Five violently takes off from the curb. They almost get hit by two cars as he makes a U-turn to head in the direction Gram-Gram—and Klaus, vicariously—pointed to.

“Easy, Vin Diesel!” Diego shouts. He braces himself against Vanya to not completely ram into her. In the backseat, Allison has less luck from being squished by Luther. He rambles out apologies.

“I don’t know who _that is,”_ Five snaps back.

“I vote Five never drives again!” Klaus shouts pathetically. “He drives like he’s seen the face of death and decided to spit in it!”

“Of course I’ve seen the face of death—I am the Four _fucking_ Horsemen,” Five declares, his mania now full-blown.

“See, now that’s just a _weird_ thing to say!” says Klaus. “That’s weird!”

“It is a little weird,” Vanya quietly admits.

Five keeps his eyes glued to the road in hyper-awareness, like he’ll see the khaki-creep he’s almost positive is Vanya’s doting psycho boyfriend at any second.

“The man who kidnapped Eight isn’t Commission,” he says. “Nobody would be caught dead in khakis. Uniform violation. That’s a serious write-up. But it’s someone who knows her powers well enough to come up with a _creative_ way of getting rid of her.”

“Burying her alive,” Diego mutters.

“The—Gram-Gram said she was looking real bad when he took her,” Klaus says. “Like she was, uh, choking. Couldn’t breathe.”

“That’s bad,” says Allison. “Eightie never gets hurt.”

Five hums. “It could have been an aerosol poison of some kind. Surprised her. It’d make burying her even easier.”

“Then we gotta get to her fast,” says Luther. “Dad at least gave her an oxygen tank when he tested her powers in the ocean.”

“At least,” Diego scoffs. “Oh, good for the old man. He prepared her for being buried alive in some form.”

“Do we still even know where we’re going?” Vanya asks, glancing around. “I mean, we have a general direction, but…”

“It has to be somewhere outside of town,” Five says grimly. He doesn’t like the thought of the time it’ll take to drive outside of city limits and into the countryside. But you’re tough. You’re Eight. “We’ll take that lead and go with it.”

They fall into an uneasy silence. Klaus chews on another ice cube. Vanya’s leg bounces. Diego twirls a knife. Allison stares out the window. Luther stares at his fists.

Then Klaus sniffs. Sniffs again. He lifts an arm and sniffs himself. “What is that…musk? It ain’t me for once. Luther?” He leans and sniffs. “Nope.”

Diego sniffs. “Yeah. It’s…oof, yeah, I smell it.”

“It’s not that bad, guys,” Vanya mutters. Luther and Allison sniff. Diego smells himself to make sure. Even Ben peeks his head out from the backseat to try and identify the source.

Five hunches down with a deep scowl.

Klaus leans forward, sticks his nose right next to Five’s shoulder, and inhales with everything he’s got. Then he goes, “Woof, _Five,_ when was the last time you showered? Yeesh!”

Five’s knuckles turn stark white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. “I am stuck in this _teenage body_. I _sweat_ more than a normal adult.”

“Man, do we need to stop and get you some deodorant?” Diego laughs. “You stink, boy!”

“Call me _boy_ again, Diego, and you’ll be eating asphalt at fifty miles an hour,” Five says with a death grin.

But Allison covers her mouth to stifle a laugh, and Luther lets out a childish snort. Diego starts rolling in the passenger seat with his infectious giggles. Klaus and Ben laugh as well. Vanya, the last one to hold out, bends her head down and quietly shakes.

Five can’t hang onto his anger amidst everyone’s laughter. A sarcastic smile spreads across his lips before he can control himself.

“Alright, laugh it up, you assholes,” he drawls, reaching down to roll down the window to let in fresh air. “Laugh it up.”

-

Hazel watches Cha-Cha put in the report of your elimination from a dingy payphone by a rural rest stop about ten minutes away from your burial site. She hangs up before the dispatcher can inquire about the unauthorized travel because it will only lead to the Commission finding out they lost the briefcase.

“Let’s go do some negotiating,” Cha-Cha says once she gets back inside the car. “I got a good feeling about this, Hazel. I can’t _wait_ to see Five squirm.”

“Don’t get too excited,” says Hazel. He pulls onto the road. “A hundred things can go wrong between here and there.”

“Can’t you just let me have my moment?”

“Yeah, okay, sorry, sorry.”

Hazel makes sure there’s ample enough time before he says what he says next. “You know what sounds good? Some takeout from that Thai restaurant. You remember the one, right? The one we came across a few years back?”

“Mm, yeah, that does sound good. I’m starving. It’s been a stressful week! You know how that disrupts my appetite, Hazel.”

“I do.”

He turns down a road that he’s _pretty_ sure will take them back to the city. “So, why don’t I drop you off at the motel? You can rest up, get comfy. I’ll get the takeout. My treat.”

“I ain’t complaining,” Cha-Cha says, easing the passenger seat back.

Hazel holds in the loud breath he wants to let out. It’s a start, at least. A start.

-

“Uh oh.”

“What does uh oh mean?” Diego asks Five, straightening in his seat. They’d been driving for nearly two hours around in the countryside with no luck finding you, which made their nerves perpetually tense and exhausted.

Five points ahead. Down the road in the hazy mirage stands a line of black-clad figures. With guns. Who weren’t there just a few seconds ago.

“Commission,” Five hisses. He slams on the break, but they’re already within firing range. Vanya lets out a cry. Luther shouts for everyone to get down. Klaus chokes on a Zebra Cake.

Diego takes a breath. Mom always told him to picture the words he struggled to say in his head. Once he did, he would be able to bring them forth, make them exist.

He pictures you on the other side of the agents, waiting for them, for him, waiting to be saved.

The agents open fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=AAyhrGQJSri_d0bC9NPvrA)


	23. so this ain’t the end, i saw you again, today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Barracuda"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4KfSdst7rW39C0sfhArdrz?si=pEddxZ65R62486hn8tsYhQ)

_Tee._

Five’s voice breaks the silence. Your eyes open, but it hardly makes a difference. You’re running out of oxygen in the black.

If you die, you won’t have to be abandoned with this, this _pain._

It’s faded somewhat. Not enough. You want to force yourself into death to be free from its clawing, burning.

Your eyes shut again.

-

_Come on, are you really going to give up like this?_

No. Yes. You’re in pain. And without any air to breathe, you’ll die soon, anyway.

_Everybody feels pain. Welcome to the club._

You don’t want to be part of the club. Never did.

 _Pain sucks. It does. It is not, however, the end of the world. I would know because, well, I’ve_ actually _seen the end of the world._

Shut up. Shut up. You know, alright?

_Ooh, getting mean, are we?_

You’re being driven insane currently trapped with nothing but searing ache. It reminds you of the incident, where blood wouldn’t stop coming out of you, where you screamed and cried and realized that agony had color and taste. You don’t want to remember it. You want to forget. Ignore. So, please, can you be left alone in silence? It’s the one small mercy you’ve been given. You want it to be quiet. Quiet means no talking in your brain. It’s just you, and you have mastered silence too well to have to suffer through this conversation.

-

_Seriously?_

The box inside of you rattles. No. No. You are _not_ going to be stuck with physical _and_ emotional pain. Can you speed up the dying process? Please?

_Why do you want to die?_

You’ve…it’s been…

_We’re coming for you, Tee. Just hang in there._

No. You’re…fine. It is what it is. And besides, _you_ are the one who your family goes to, not the other way around. You don’t want to burden any of them with your issues—

 _Issues?_ Issues?

Protect Vanya. That’s the most important thing. Protect her, and you’ll be happy.

_And what about protecting you?_

Don’t. Shut up. Shut up.

_You don’t want me saying it because it’s true. It’s okay to be mad. Get fucking mad, Tee! You’ve needed protection, too!_

The box flips upside down, and you make a small noise, which breaks the silence of the underground.

“Then…why did you leave me?” you whisper into the damp dirt.

There is no answer. You close your eyes again. Oxygen deprivation makes you tired. But, as your vision fades, it fades to a soft glow that had not been with you in the black moments before.

-

The Hargreeves watch in awe as the onslaught of bullets suddenly change directions from their intended target. Diego stands behind the passenger door he swung open at the last instant. His hands splay out in front of him, and his body trembles with exertion and focus. It’s like he has created an invisible shield that the bullets can’t penetrate, and even though Diego can literally feel the strain forcing down on him, he likes to think you’d be proud of the similarities between what he’s doing with his powers and what you do.

“Go Diego!” Klaus shouts from the backseat.

“Dad’s car is bulletproof!” yells Five. “Get your ass back in here, Diego!”

“Don’t ruin the moment, Five!”

Diego grits his teeth. He hates redirecting bullets, and he _really_ hates when it’s automatic fire. Screw Dad’s bulletproof car. It can’t take this many rounds without them leaving them entirely unscathed, or worse, a stray bullet will leave them stranded on the road.

“We have to retreat, _now!”_ Luther states.

“Obviously!” Five snaps back. He puts the car in reverse, then says, “Diego! Three—two—one!”

On one, Diego pushes the last of the bullets into a different trajectory and leaps back into the car. He doesn’t have time to close the door before Five is screeching backward. He tries to look behind him, but winds up shouting, “Damnit, Luther, your big ass head is in the way! I can’t see shit!”

Bullets pelt against the windshield and hood of the car. Diego hears a headlight go out. He makes Vanya put her head between her legs and protectively covers her with his body. His heart races dangerously, and colors tinge his vision. Shit. He’s out-of-practice with expending the amount of power he just did.

“There are more behind us!” Allison exclaims. “Five, Five—”

“Welp! Looks like we’re going off-roading, kids!”

Five brakes again, shifts the car into drive, then veers off the road and into an adjacent field.

“Are you crazy?” Diego hollers over gunfire and earth churning under wheels. “We’re going to get stuck! It’s too muddy!”

“Not if we don’t slow down!” Five replies with a feral grin. He presses the pedal harder.

“WE’RE GOING TO DIE!” Klaus cries. “I DON’T WANT TO DIE! I’M AT MY PEAK SEXINESS!”

The boom of a rocket launcher explodes about ten feet behind the car. At the same time, Allison suddenly slams herself against the backseat window and screams, “I see it! I SEE IT! I SEE WHERE EIGHT WAS BURIED! I SEE IT! RIGHT THERE RIGHT THERE!”

“Where? Where where—”

Another rocket crashes dangerously close to them. A shrapnel piece lodges itself into the cracked window beside Klaus, inches from where he sits. He screams.

“We won’t be able to get to her!” Luther chooses to be the one to state the gut-wrenching truth. “Not like this! We have to shake them first!”

“He’s right, damnit!” Diego backs up. “Five, we can’t save Eight if we’re all dead!”

Five keeps driving because he agrees with them, because he knows they don’t have a chance of saving you with thirty Commission goons on their asses, because he did not _factor in this possibility_ to come up with a solution.

At the top of his lungs, he yells an appropriate, “FUCK!”

They make it back to the road and veer onto it. The bullets can’t reach this far, but an occasional hit will dent the door or put another tiny crack in the glass.

Five speeds up and over the rolling hill that’ll take them back to town. He trembles with absolute _rage._

“I’m going to kill them all,” he swears, voice unhinged and vengeful and true. “I’m going to kill every last one of them.”

Vanya closes her eyes, trying to calm her racing heart. It beats too loudly in her ears. She runs a thumb rhythmically over the scarred skin on her hand. In her terrified and angry mind, she whispers to you, _We’ll be back for you. We’re coming. I promise. I promise. I promise._

-

A faint thud breaks the silence. Then another. The earth rumbles. It brings you from the silence and into the light.

After a half-conscious thought process, you determine that your body went into nightlight mode because it’s a visible act of keeping you alive in spite of having no oxygen. You aren’t dying as violently as you did when your body decided to evacuate an entire _organ,_ so you don’t need a booster from Vanya’s dormant powers.

Maybe her powers aren’t dormant anymore. Maybe nobody got to her in time, and she started the apocalypse. That’s what the rumbling was about.

You hope not. Would Five still end up in the apocalypse? Maybe you’d get to be with him this time. He wouldn’t be alone. You wouldn’t be alone.

Or, you’d just go insane in this pit before your body matched your mind and allowed you to die.

It is a little disappointing to realize that you probably wouldn’t have died if you removed your oxygen mouthpiece underneath the ocean to drown. At least, not right away. Would you have been in a constant state of drowning? You’re not sure, although if Dad were alive and he had this knowledge, he would have drowned and poisoned and suffocated you as many times as he wanted to find veritable evidence for a sound conclusion.

Light shines on the tarp, shines on dirt. You want it to disappear.

You just want to—

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’ve got family waiting for you. They need you.

Is it just you wanting them to need you, though?

Of course it is. You won’t deny it. You want to be needed, just as they want to be needed. There’s nothing wrong with that.

You want to be saved, to make them see _you need saving._

Do you? Or will that just make you see who exactly the other in the dark is?

Then again, if you stay here, you might have to reckon with just how little of you there is alone, without them, without anyone but yourself.

It is the true terror. It is the foundation of the silence, your reprieve, your punishment.

You want—you want—you want—

_What?_

The song?

You have not heard anything in so, so long. You don’t believe it’s in you, anymore. The silence has become so powerful.

_Do you want it back?_

No—yes—it doesn’t matter.

_It does. It always has._

You fear that if you search for it, reach out for it, you will only find nothing. A void. An empty grave. It will hurt you, and at the bottom of that empty grave, you will see what has become of the other.

Faint light continues to shine in the dark despite you hating it, despite you loving it.

-

It starts to rain. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop, and it goes well into the early night, turning the sky a glossy black.

“We have to draw them out somewhere,” Five says. “Start picking them off. It’s going to be ugly, but if we’re the ones prepared, we have a chance.”

“How many are there?” Luther asks.

Five tilts his head a fraction. “A lot. But they won’t come out all at once. It takes at least an hour before the Commission receives word on the switchboard that a team has been killed.”

Patch taps her finger on the table they gather around back at the mansion. Diego called the detective to inform her of the current situation. She clocked out and found herself back at her ex’s childhood home, back with this semi-functional family. She does _not_ notice how close Diego is standing next to her, warmth radiating off of him.

They won’t be able to stay long in one place. With the Commission on their tails in quantity over quality, anywhere they go will eventually be swarmed by killers. “It needs to be a place that isn’t too obvious,” she says. “Otherwise, they’ll come with more numbers, and you’ll risk losing out on the advantage of surprise.”

“True.” Five eyes her. From his disheveled appearance and the bright exhaustion mingled with hyper-focus, Patch can tell he’s on the verge of a breakdown. She’s seen it in others on the force. She’s seen it in herself. He needs sleep. “Got any ideas of where to set up?”

“Not that I condone allowing a place to be shot up and be the scene of a large-scale murder,” Patch makes clear before she continues, “but there’s a shitty diner on the edge of city limits. It’ll make for a shorter trip back to Eight once you take care of them. If the place where you figure she was roughly buried is in the right spot…” Patch puts one finger on where the diner is located and another on the circled area where they decided you were. “It’d give you twenty minutes to find her, fifteen to dig her out, then ten minutes to haul ass before they can pinpoint you to an exact location.

“The diner has few windows and a large counter space. There’s only one front door and a back door. You’d possibly be able to bottleneck the agents. Once the fighting starts, hopefully you can get any bystanders out of the way through the back, but it shouldn’t be too busy when you get there.”

“I can rumor the customers and employees to leave before the fighting begins,” Allison says. When they give her a look, she tersely sighs. “I _can_ use my rumoring. I just haven’t done it in a while. It’ll keep people safe, so I’m not going to refuse.”

“Why do you have all this information on a single diner?” Diego questions Patch with a smirk.

“We did a sting operation there not too long ago. _Had_ to make a sting, otherwise you would have come in and fucked things up.”

“Eudora, ouch—”

“Hush. I’m not finished.”

Diego raises his hands in submission. “Once they call the cops, you’ll be on a time limit. Make quick work of these douchebags, then get the hell out of there before anyone recognizes a shot-up, ancient-ass car.”

“Oh, we’ll make quick work,” Five assures with a syrupy smile, which only enhances his borderline-deranged state. Thunder rumbles outside, and his smile disappears. “We have to—ever tried digging a grave in the rain?”

“No?”

“It’s not fun, I’ll tell ya that. And I imagine it’s not going to be any better _undigging.”_

“I suppose I will have to fetch the shovels from the garden shed,” Pogo says. He turns to Vanya with a concerned expression. “How are you, Miss Vanya? I understand the noises a rainstorm brings can have…effects…on your powers.”

“Oh, um,” Vanya replies, trying to shrink away from all the eyes suddenly on her, “I’m fine, Pogo. Thank you. I, I don’t feel much right now. I’m honestly not sure what I’m supposed to feel. I don’t…remember rainstorms being bad for me.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay at the house?” Allison asks her.

“I’m sure,” Vanya nods. “If it were…any other situation, I’d be okay with hanging back, but it’s Eight. I’m not going to just sit around while you go and save her. I want to save her, too.”

Mercifully, nobody argues with her.

Patch says, “I’ll stay here with Pogo and Grace. Make sure they have someone with them in case some agents decide to get the jump on the house.”

“That’s dangerous,” Diego counters. “You’re all by yourself—”

“Would you rather them be undefended?”

“No, but—”

“Then it’s decided.”

Diego scoffs and sucks in some air to say more roundabout shit, but Five cuts him off. “Diego, we don’t have the time. If the cop wants to be here, then let her. She can at least make sure Pogo and Mom get out safely.”

“You ain’t gonna shake me, Hargreeves,” Patch says, patting Diego on the arm. He scowls at her, but for some reason, doesn’t keep up the argument.

Five looks around at all of them, grim and ready. “Let’s go kill some shitheads who want to fuck with us.”

-

_Thump, dig. Thump, dig. Thump, dig. Thump, dig. Thump, dig. Thump, dig. Thump, dig. Thump, dig._

At first, you think it’s the silence playing tricks on you. That doesn’t stop you from instinctively hoping. It’s your family. It has to be. They’ve come for you, they’re here, they found you, they, they, they care, even though you say you they don’t need to worry, that it’s your job to worry, they love you anyway, so of course they’re going to worry and dig you up and, and, and you’ll see it isn’t the end of the world yet, you still have time, you can hug Vanya and Five and Allison and Luther and Klaus and Diego and Ben and Pogo and Mom and, and, and…

The digging seems to drag on forever, but you have to stay your patience. Your sore eyes and throat burn with fresh pain not from the poison, and you want to get out of here before they find you suffering from the insanity forced upon you. You’re ready. You’re waiting. Please, please, hurry, you want to _live._

The edge of a shovel hits your back. After, the digging becomes much more precise to not repeatedly thump against you. You begin to hear rain drizzling on the tarp covering your body, and once it is torn off, droplets soak your back to turn dirt into mud. The light fades as soon as you can breathe again. You hungrily take in earthy gasps of air that soothe your stressed lungs. The glare of a flashlight blinds your unadjusted vision.

A knife undoes the zip ties binding you with resounding _thwick-thwick-thwicks._ You bring your arms in front of you and push yourself up. It’s strange you don’t hear any of your family’s voices. Shouldn’t they be happy to have found you? Where is everyone? Who…who…?

You scramble to the side of the grave, crawling up on slick mud. As soon as you turn, wincing from the flashlight, the direct light moves away from you, which allows you to see your rescuer.

Holding the flashlight with a shovel propped up on his broad shoulder is Hazel.

“That…was a lot of work,” he pants. He goes to wipe his eyes with the back of a grimy arm to clear it, but it doesn’t make a difference. Hazel is soaked with rainwater, and his white button-up shirt, which is rolled back to his elbows, has been largely stained with mud. The tie around his neck is loosened, and the first two buttons of the shirt are undone. His usually neat hair clings to his forehead.

“Why?” you ask. It’s all you can ask. You weren’t saved by your family. Would you ever have been?

Hazel puts the shovel downward so he can lean on it. When he hangs his head a little, rain gathers on his nose and drips off it.

“Because…I’m done. I’m done with all of it. And I need your help.” Despite the raggedness, Hazel is sure, and he makes it clear by his stoic look.

He extends his hand out to you.

You stare at Hazel. Muddy water soaks into your clothes, your hair. Hazel broke into your home. Hazel hurt Klaus. Hazel wanted to hurt Five.

But it’s a start. You can’t condemn him no more than you can condemn Five for being in the exact same position. And, like Five, he wants to leave this life. He began by saving you from an eternal silence, an eternal almost-death, an eternal insanity.

“Please,” Hazel says, a crack in his voice. It’s the same kind of crack in your box.

You take his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=EY6daYTcR2aQ3MMuax1oGQ)


	24. brand new moral code, got made reluctant renegade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Blood Like Lemonade"](https://open.spotify.com/track/7bsPIUEEOuL5WlOPcYUrYx?si=huzkFOMqRuSodKZukyenTA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of attempted suicide

The windshield wipers steadily keep rain clear from the window. You stare at them going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Some country song plays on the radio. Hazel tries wiping excess water from his face with a handkerchief, but he only finds that it, too, has been soaked through during the dig. The heater blows air to dry you both off on some small scale.

“The briefcase should be back at the manor,” you say, voice flat, too distracted by the wipers to provide any inflection. “In the trunk of Dad’s car.”

“Okay. We’ll head there, then. And you swear you’ll negotiate yourself for it?”

“You dug me out of a hole. Literally. I got your back. You’ll get your briefcase for you and Ms. Agnes.”

A small smile appears. You say, “I knew you liked her.”

“How could you have known?”

“You made her smile. She made you smile. It’s not hard to put together.” You sigh. “It’s so romantic.”

Hazel hopefully glances at you. He shifts in his seat. “Is it?”

“Yeah. Running away with a woman, ready to give up everything just to be with her? I’ve edited enough romance novels to tell you that’s romantic.”

He smiles to himself. “Well. I just hope it works out.”

“It will. It may seem like it won’t for a little bit because things never go perfectly, but it’ll wind up with you and Agnes being happy together.”

“That happens in books. This is real life.”

“Sometimes, happiness can be found in real life. Surprising, I know.”

You fold your arms. “What are you going to do about Cha-Cha?”

“Get going before she figures out I’ve broken my contract. She’ll kill me otherwise.”

“Why don’t you kill her first?”

Hazel exhales. “Because…is it strange to say I don’t want to?”

“No. I’m sure leaving her behind is already rough on you. Killing her while you’re at it would just hurt more. You don’t want that kind of pain.”

“I’ll admit, it is a little disconcerting to be given nuggets of wisdom from someone who looks like a teenager.”

“At least you listen. Outside of my family, it’s a fight to get people to take me seriously. That is the curse of youth.”

Hazel chuckles, then says, “And you? Still planning on stopping the apocalypse?”

“Yeah. I’m going to kill the guy who buried me, first. That might help bat the apocalypse away. Oh, and since we’re on the topic, how did you know where to find me?”

Hazel nervously taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “About that…”

You continue to stare straight ahead at the wipers and the rain beyond, which shines in the headlights that break through the dark. Is your family alright?

Are you alright?

“You already knew in some way, didn’t you?” you ask, voice still flat.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Sorry about that. Commission withdrew the kill order on Five, directed it to you instead. We staked out your house and saw you get taken. Followed him out here to make sure he did a good enough job.”

“Why would they put a hit on me?”

Hazel shrugs. “Probably because you pose a bigger threat to stopping the apocalypse than he does at this point.”

“Oh. That’s…worrying.”

“Yeah. Can’t imagine what it feels like to be the one to make or break the end of the world.”

“I mean, I’m not worried the most about that so much—I’m worried about Five and what it means for him. I doubt they withdrew the _entire_ kill order. They just told _you_ two not to kill him. I’m sure he still has assassins on his tail for breaking his contract.”

“Huh. You’re probably right about that.”

You need to protect him. Protect Vanya. Protect your family. Protect the world. Protect them from the grave, the silence.

Fuck it if you have to sacrifice your own protection in the process.

The box’s lid slams open. Your chest seizes up.

Since you can’t bash your head into the dashboard without breaking it, you begin to roll down the window with uneven breaths.

“Whoa, you gonna be sick?” Hazel asks.

“I couldn’t be sick even if I wanted,” you reply through gritted teeth, then unbuckle yourself and stick the upper half of your body out the window. In the dark and rain and thunder, a scream drags itself from your lungs and pours out into the night. You can’t even let the frigid temperature cool you. You’ve never been able to feel the cold or heat as acutely as a regular human body. It rolls off you like everything else. Only the light ever warmed your insides.

Rain you have to assume is cold dashes across your face and pelts into your open mouth. Wind streaks past, carrying your scream to the void behind you, the void around you, broken only by old yellow headlights in front. It’s the scream you’ve held in when you found out Vanya causes the apocalypse, when you saw what Dad did to Luther, when Klaus was taken from you twice, when Five threw his vitriol at you again and again, when you thought you were going to die from pain.

When you were buried alive and left to the nothing.

The scream, like all things, has its end, marking the first day that you’ve screamed since you bled out on the bathroom floor with Five cradling your head and Vanya holding your hand. Then you’re left staring into the black, chest heaving, hands bracing yourself against the car. Wind and road drown out all other sounds. Yellow lines hypnotically slip by, slip, slip, slip, until they blur together on the wet black asphalt.

You slink back into the car and roll the window back up. Your head leans against the back of the seat. Beads of water roll down your face. Another country song plays.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t have to tell me that,” Hazel says, driving like nothing unusual happened. “I get it.”

The radio distorts any silence. You force your breathing to remain even. You’re tired. Hazel stops about ten minutes later at a rural gas station to make a phone call to Cha-Cha explaining he’s stuck in town with car troubles, which is why he’s going to be late getting back.

“Oh, I got something. As an…apology of sorts.”

Hazel grabs something from the backseat and puts it in your lap. Looking down, you see the stamp of Griddy’s logo on the donut box. Honestly, you’ve never seen something more beautiful in your life, especially when you lift the top back and see an assortment of picturesque donuts, including the glossy glazed kind.

“Thank you. Really.”

The two of you each grab a donut and eat one as radio music washes over you, and you find your box stops falling apart, glued back together for the moment by sweet and fluffy food.

-

Cha-Cha hangs up the phone. She didn’t want to buy into her suspicion earlier, but the phone call makes her right. Damnit, she’s _always_ right. Hazel is up to something. Something not involving her. She doesn’t like that.

Knowing him, he plans to make a break for it _with_ the briefcase in tow, leaving her high and dry, the bastard. Bastard! Fucking bastard! Thinking he can double-cross her? Think again, piece of shit. How long had they been partners? Too fucking long! She’s always listened to his griping, his groaning, working day and night with him to preserve the timeline and just get fucking _paid._

She’s going to kill him. Make him suffer. It’s the least he deserves for trying to abandon her to the Commission and take off. And damnit, Cha-Cha wanted Thai food, too! Lying son of a bitch.

The taxi pulls up to the curb of the ugly, shithole donut shop Hazel likes to frequent for some reason. Cha-Cha peers in through the glass windows but doesn’t see him. Fine. Then she’s going to get that briefcase on her own, leverage your stupid location to your freakshow family, and watch as Hazel realizes he won’t get away with any stupid plan he concocted in that big head of his.

Then Cha-Cha will put a bullet through that same big head.

She pays the cab driver and steps out onto the sidewalk just outside the manor. Rain immediately begins to dampen her suit, so she walks to the door and tests the handle. They’ve put a new lock on it. Oh well.

Cha-Cha takes out her gun, then rings the doorbell. For a while, nobody answers, leaving her to impatiently wait in the cold. When she gets sick of this shit, she shoots the lock and bursts in. The first thing she notes is the darkness of the foyer, the broken chandelier still crumpled on the rug, and the barrel of a gun pressed to her head.

“Don’t move,” the bitch cop from the other night snarls. She moves away from Cha-Cha to put some space between them, still pointing her weapon at Cha-Cha. “Or I’ll put a bullet through your skull.”

Cha-Cha sighs and tosses her arms out frustratedly. “Where the hell is the family, huh? I’ve come to negotiate.”

The cop barks a laugh. “Negotiate?” she repeats. “Breaking in _again_ is negotiating? You’re crazy.”

“I’m _tired,_ that’s what I am, and if you point that gun somewhere else, bitch, you’re going to see what happens when you don’t have your shitty boyfriend protecting you.” Cha-Cha can still feel the sting on her butt cheek from the knife he threw at an impossible angle when she realized she was in deep shit fighting him and his sister. She hates him and his black wannabe hero outfit even more for it.

“Ex-boyfriend,” the cop corrects with a sarcastic smile. “Complicated at most.”

“Do I look like I care? Look, I need my briefcase back, and I’m here to talk to that little asshole Five and his family to make an arrangement, alright? I know where Eight is, and I’ll show them where she’s located in exchange for the briefcase.”

Patch’s eyes widen slightly at the mention of you and Cha-Cha’s information of your whereabouts, but she doesn’t let her gun lower. “Well, if it isn’t obvious, they’re not _here_ right now. You came at the wrong time.” She adds a sarcastic smile at the end of her sentence. She won’t mention they’re already on their way to you as well; that’d put her at a disadvantage, and as much as Patch hates to admit it, Cha-Cha will have her beat if the situation turns hostile.

Diego is going to chew her ass out, but Patch has to survive long enough for him to get back here to do it.

Cha-Cha scoffs. “Then I’m just gonna have to wait, aren’t I?”

She shoves her gun back behind her in a deliberate, annoyed manner. She’s sure she should just kill the cop and be done with it, but if the cop dies, then so do any chances of getting her briefcase back. It puts them at a bitter stalemate.

Grace, of course, marches into the foyer, beaming and perfect and bright. She holds a platter in front of her. “I made cookies for everyone! Oh! Looks like we have a guest! Come in, come in, where are my manners?”

“Who the hell is this?” Cha-Cha questions.

“Her name is Grace,” Patch replies. She reluctantly holsters her gun. “Their mom.”

“Looks kinda young.”

“She’s a robot. Do you know _anything_ about this family?”

“Whatever. I’m starving.” Cha-Cha saunters past Patch, giving the cop an open invitation to attack just so she can beat her ass. She’s only slightly disappointed when the cop makes no move. “I’ll take a cookie, Robot Mom.”

“Wonderful!”

Patch sighs. She hopes Diego isn’t lying in a pool of his own blood by now because he got too cocky fighting Commission agents. Cockiness _is_ one of his primary traits.

If Diego does get hurt while she’s taken extra measures not to, she’ll chew his ass out.

-

“So, Vanya, you…feeling alright?” Klaus asks his sister. They sit together in the backseat of the car. It’s parked in the alley behind the diner to make for a quick getaway out the back. Everyone else went inside, deeming it too dangerous for both Klaus and Vanya to go inside with them. She has to agree. Even with her powers—which she has no idea what they even are—she has no fighting skills. Klaus can’t fight well, either, leaving them as backup if things started looking dicey. Ben went inside to be the ghost-messenger who’d inform them of any bad shit.

“I’m fine,” she says with a small shrug. “Just worried about Eight.”

“Not, uh, getting any _urges_ of power or destruction, are you?”

Vanya gives Klaus a flat look. “No.”

He raises his hands. In the dark of the alleyway, she can barely see his HELLO and GOODBYE tattoos.

“Just checking, just checking. It’d be _bad_ if everyone ran out to see, uh, the car a mangled _piece of shi—”_

“Klaus. I get it.”

“Right. Duh.” He reaches up into the front of the car and grabs the stick of deodorant lying beside the driver’s seat. Klaus pops the lid, then shoves the stick into his armpit. They made Five stop to get deodorant before hitting up the diner to mitigate his teenage _fragrance,_ but Klaus doesn’t see anything wrong in making sure he doesn’t stink himself.

Vanya folds her arms in front of her. “I hate waiting. That’s all I’ve ever done. Wait.”

“Ah, believe me, Vanny, it’s not all that glamorous being in the middle of everything. There’s just…lots of blood and screaming.”

Klaus’ lighthearted tone retreats. He tosses the deodorant back in the front, where it clatters somewhere on the floor of the car. The second after it does, muted gunfire erupts in the night. Klaus flinches, heart suddenly hammering, and he can smell jungle and blood and metal—

A hand holds his, anchoring him. Klaus looks to Vanya through bleary vision, through memory, and sees her worried but loving smile.

Slowly, he curls up on the backseat, head finding her lap, and places his hands over both ears. Vanya puts her arms over him protectively.

It’s such a funny feeling, Klaus thinks, to know that he’s being cared for. He never got used to it with you, with his family, with…with Dave.

Maybe if he got used to it sooner, he wouldn’t be the mess he is now.

But Vanya doesn’t seem to care. She shields him without restraint or reluctance.

It’s a funnier feeling, Klaus also thinks, to feel safe like this in spite of the fear.

-

Diego retrieves his last knife from the back of a corpse. Allison shakes her sore fists. It’s been a while since she’s fought that many people at once. Luther takes a breath and wipes his brow with the back of a gloved hand. He almost steps into a pool of blood but avoids it at the last second. Five straightens his tie, wipes the bloody kitchen knife handle on a napkin to smear his fingerprints, and tosses it on the ground.

He looks at all of them. “Alright, now that that’s taken care of, let’s get going.”

“Wait, wait,” says Luther, “first, is anyone hurt?”

Diego scoffs like it’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard. Even Five wryly smirks and spreads his arms out. “Luther, do I _look_ like the kind of person to get hurt?”

“Well—it’s my job to make sure you’re all okay.”

“I’m fine,” Diego and Five simultaneously reply.

“I’m fine, too,” Allison assures much more nicely. She wipes a few specks of blood from her cheek. “Thanks, Luther.”

He tries not to think about them being a team again, about being able to lead, like the good days.

But…they were never the good days, were they? That’s why everyone left. That’s why Ben died. That’s why he walks in the body he does.

Luther glances down at the carnage. He’s been desensitized from it for so long that he never considered it wasn’t good for kids to kill, to wipe blood off their faces, to hear people pleading for their lives as they gurgled and gasped for breath.

When you left with Vanya, he had been so…betrayed. Angry. He never understood why you wouldn’t want to be there to protect them. Protect him. You were _The Shield._ And even after the anger faded because honestly, Luther could never stay mad at you, he always struggled to understand the _why._

It’s coming to him, now.

“Hey.”

Allison touches his arm, jolting Luther from his thoughts. She smiles up at him, brows furrowed with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he lies placidly. “Fine.

She doesn’t believe it, but she doesn’t press for the moment.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all fine _physically,”_ Five cuts in. “Emotionally? Mentally? You wanna follow up on that, too, Luther? ‘Cause that’s a very different story.”

“Whoa, way to go, Five,” Allison smirks, using her tact to redirect Five’s instinctual ire from Luther. “Accepting that you’ve been traumatized is the first step to recovery.”

He sneers at her, which is made funnier by the fact that a fifty-eight-year-old man would still pull such an immature face like that.

“Let’s _go,”_ he hisses, and they swear that’s been his catchphrase for the past twenty-four hours. Sirens scream in the distance.

“You probably shouldn’t scowl so much, Five,” Diego remarks as they make their way out the back. “It leads to premature wrinkling.”

“Diego, say one more thing and I’ll stick your face in the deep fryer.”

“Oh, it’s over already?” Klaus asks once everybody piles into the car again. “That was…brisk.”

“Are they all dead?” says Vanya. “We’re okay for now.”

“For now,” Five echoes.

Five puts the car in drive and revs out onto the road, which garners groans from everyone. “Hey, hey, shut the hell up, all of you,” he snaps. “I’m the oldest!”

“You can barely see above the steering wheel, short stack,” Allison snickers. “Do you need a booster seat?”

“One of those cement blocks strapped to your foot?” Diego adds.

“You’re a bunch of idiots.”

Klaus makes a catty, hissing noise, then abruptly laughs. “Ben says you’re just grouchy because you missed your afternoon nap. Good one.” He raises his hand for Ben to high-five. Ben’s hand sweeps through it. Klaus grimaces, then goes, “Eh, we’ll work on it.”

“Ha ha, _Ben,”_ Five spits, but it’s with much less bite than what his family usually gets.

He speeds through the city and out into the dark countryside. The closer they get to their destination, the quieter they become, with Vanya occasionally whispering, “Can you go any faster, Five?”

“I am, Vanya,” he responds lowly.

Five thinks of you, buried and alone with the cold earth covering you. When he digs you up, will you be alive? Or will you have already clawed your way through the muddy ground, like all the dreams he had of you doing the same thing in the apocalypse?

You won’t be mad he took so long, will you?

No, of course not. That’s probably the worst thing. You _should_ be mad. You should scream and curse them for leaving you in the ground for an entire day. But you won’t. You’ll pretend you’re okay. He just wants you to, to, to _act_ on how you feel. You’re always on about talking and getting things out, but when have you ever followed your own advice in full?

“I’m just not that kind of person, Five,” you say next to him. Slowly, he glances over to his right. Instead of seeing Vanya and Diego, he sees you. Blood trails from your mouth, and your hair is covered in dust and rubble. There is no longer a storm—ash drifts from the glaring, orange sky. Five keeps driving despite the painful twist in his chest.

“Then start,” he mutters. “Hypocrite.”

He hears you softly laugh. “I will if you dance with me. Real dance. Not your shoulder-bumping excuse of a dance.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve always wanted to do it. We can dance in the sun.”

“Mm. More like the mud and the rain.”

“Is there a difference?”

An eye roll, but he wryly admits, “I suppose not.”

_“Five.”_

It’s his whisper of a name that your last breath carried past your lips. He sucks in a ragged gasp—

“Five, Five, hey.”

Vanya has her hand on his shoulder. Rain beats down on the windshield. It’s dark outside.

“You okay?” she asks with more gentleness than he deserves. “You were talking to someone.”

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just…get ready to dig. We’re almost there.”

Everyone exchanges glances. Without Delores here, it leaves them wondering who he was having a conversation with.

Brushing Vanya off stings her, so she stares straight ahead. The rain falls rhythmically on the car, beat after beat, beat after beat.

The swell of _something_ in her chest makes her instinctively grab for the pills in her coat pocket.

Then she realizes she forgot them at the apartment.

Five comes over the slight hill, and the car’s headlights beam down on the field assaulted earlier by tire tracks, gunfire, and rocket launcher projectiles. He veers off to the side of the road. Not only is it night, but the rain has erased any tracks that would have helped pinpoint your location since they drove so close to you before you had to be abandoned by Five once again.

Getting out, Five turns on one of the flashlights Pogo gave them. He pops open the trunk, and as he’s grabbing a shovel with everyone else, the ray of light falls onto a familiar briefcase tucked away in the corner.

He just puffs out a single, “Huh,” pockets the information away, and gets to work on trudging through the mud with his family. They shout your name like it’ll do any good as they spread out across the field. Water soaks into Five’s shoes and socks, and if he isn’t careful, he’ll lose a shoe to the mud’s suction.

“Where are you?” he says under his breath. “Where _are you,_ Tee?”

Five ignores the shivers running through his body. The fury in his heart for the person who did this to you keeps him warm enough all by itself. He uses the shovel to propel him forward. His flashlight sweeps across the field, searching, searching. Where the hell are you?

“Here! Here! We found it!” Klaus suddenly shouts. He waves his flashlight up in the air like a beacon. Five immediately teleports beside him, light shining down on the spot—

His furious heart drops into the cold mud.

The grave is exposed and empty.

As his siblings run to the spot, Five slams his shovel into the ground and lets out a wrenching yell. “No, no, no!”

“Five! Five! Don’t—”

Klaus can’t stop him from jumping into the hole in time. Fresh rainwater comes up to Five’s ankles. He points his flashlight down into the murky water while the other hand desperately grasps for you. His fingers turn number, but he snatches up the rough plastic of a tarp. Five hauls it up like it’ll hold you, but it comes from the water without weight. He wordlessly yells again.

“She’s…she’s not here! Five!” Allison calls. “Five!”

He doesn’t listen to her. Five shoves his hand back under. At any moment, he’ll find you reaching back for him, and he’ll pull you up, pull you out, pull you from this fucking grave and you’ll squeeze his face and smile and say _it’s about time,_ and you’ll both dance in this goddamn freezing rain with your family.

Five’s flashlight stops on floating objects in the water. He snatches them up, and when he examines them, he throws them back down into the water.

“Broken zip ties,” he shouts. “Somebody fucking got to her before we could!”

“She could have just, just dug herself out?” Diego prompts. Five shouts one more time but resists the urge to stamp his waterlogged foot into the crumpled tarp beneath him. He teleports back up a few feet away from the grave.

“No! She couldn’t have—she was restrained. And the grave is too neatly dug. You see what’s left of that dirt pile there? Someone else made it.”

Five blinks the rainwater from his eyes. He was so close, so _fucking close_ to getting you back again. And yet again, he’s lost you.

“We, we have to find her!” Vanya says. Five whirls around to her.

“Yeah, no shit, Vanya! We’ve been trying to find her for _hours!”_ He points a finger at her, and she visibly flinches. It doesn’t stop him. “You know what? I take back saying it wasn’t your fault that she’s gone! It is!”

“Five!” Allison exclaims, complete shock turning her eyes wide.

“That’s not cool, man!” Klaus also defends. “So not cool!”

The Vanya Five knew before he got stuck in the future would have wilted under his words and went off to cry. The Vanya standing before him now grits her teeth, jaw flexing, and the rain covers any real tears.

Harshly, she says, “Well, maybe if you hadn’t expected _everything_ from her, she wouldn’t have needed to take a break from you!”

“That was your decision, not mine!”

“No, it wouldn’t have been your decision! You don’t think about anyone but yourself! It’s always, _always_ you before Eightie! That’s how it was when we were kids, and that’s how it is now!”

Something _snaps_ in Five at the mention of his selfishness. Ice overtakes his entire demeanor, turning heated words frigid, so they can pierce deeper. A pulse, low and steady, gathers in the air.

“Hey, whoa, guys, hey,” Luther says, holding out a hand. His eyes catch rain drops falling oddly, like they’re being distorted by some unseen waves. “Vanya. Five. I need you both to calm down.”

“Oh, I’m _calm,”_ Five says, keeping his glare on Vanya. “Because at least I haven’t constantly _sucked the life_ from Eight for over fifteen years—”

“SHUT UP!”

One moment, Five is on his feet, and the next, he’s sailing through the air. He lands hard in the mud, dazed and disoriented. His entire body aches like he got hit with a hammer on every square inch of skin. Five gasps for air, spitting out muck from his mouth. His flashlight, which lays several feet from him, shines on Diego and Klaus, who’ve been completely thrown like he has. He can’t pick out Allison and Luther. The pulse in the air doesn’t cease, but neither does it grow.

_Vanya. It was Vanya._

What has he done?

Shit. Shit!

Five props himself up, grimacing at the painful throb in his head. Vanya is the only one still standing. She hunches forward, eyes squeezed shut as she gratingly yells, “None of you have _any idea_ what life has been like for Eight! None of you even cared enough to see it! But I have! I’ve been with her this entire time! _I_ didn’t leave her like the rest of you did!”

Vanya presses folded arms to her stomach. There’s a…glow to her, faint and blue and visible in the dark night. He stands on shaking legs. Vanya’s mouth twists, like she has something bitter in her mouth she wants to simultaneously swallow and spit out. But she has been holding it inside her for too long, so her power forces it out, her power and her anger and her grief.

“After…after Ben died,” she says with heartbreak, “none of you saw what it did to Eight. You just went to her, over and over to pile your pains inside her, and she _let_ you. But it was killing her. She—she—she—”

A sob rips through Vanya. She can’t open her eyes to look at any of them. Her power comes off in rapid, devastated heartbeats. “I woke up one…early one morning. And I just _knew_ something was wrong, so I, um, I went to the attic to look for her because, because she wasn’t in her room, a-a-and I _saw her hanging._ She was hanging by a—a rope around her neck.

“She just… _looked_ at me. And do you know what she said?”

Vanya opens her eyes directly at Five. Her head tilts back, chest heaving. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much pain in her. Pain and contempt. Sickness builds in his stomach. He didn’t want it to be true. He didn’t…he didn’t…mean…

Five stares back, paralyzed.

“She asked me to help her down. That’s all. Then she _swore_ that I wouldn’t tell any of you because she didn’t want you all to _worry.”_

Over the pulsations emanating from her, Vanya reproachfully says to him, “So hate me for caring about Eightie. At least I ask myself _what she needs_ instead of _what I can put onto her.”_

Rain starts to fall normally again. Vanya takes a sudden breath and falls to a knee. The glow around her fades. Her family stands around her, silent and stricken.

Five wants to teleport as far away as he can from them and scream up into the thunder clouds until he has nothing left inside him, but he swallows it back and takes a step forward. Then another. Another, and another, until he can crouch beside Vanya. She’s crying. He’s not sure what to do with his hands or how to comfort her. Nothing like that in him comes naturally.

Still, he can’t use it as an excuse.

He touches her shaking shoulder. She doesn’t lift her gaze to him, and although it hurts, Five understands he doesn’t deserve it.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology carries more to it between letters, between pauses. It is an apology that spans years and spans the seconds when he fucked everything up. It is an apology that can never be enough. None of his apologies are. It is heavy on his tongue, raw in his throat.

But Vanya finally looks at Five again. She blinks through the downfall of rain.

“Me, too.”

He smiles tightly. “Don’t be.”

They stand up again. Her skin is cold. He needs to get them out of the rain.

Thunder rolls above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=v_0aSv3jQyKZI7gRcrL8xg)


	25. two worlds collided, and they could never tear us apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Never Tear Us Apart"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0xrpX0jBdZRJcYIyraRwFK?si=h7G5n-wkSRyCcNTAkf5wnw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: depiction of death

“Did you know?”

Ben purses his lips and sighs. Klaus wearily stares back at him in the dark car.

“I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Klaus’ voice comes out hoarse.

“I tried at first. I…tried to wake you up so you could stop her, but you were drugged out. I couldn’t do anything. Then I tried to tell you without directly saying it because I didn’t want to upset her by telling you, but nothing…nothing ever took.”

It makes sense, now. It should have made sense back then, but Klaus was too much of an idiot to fully realize it. The past few years, he started to see your coping mechanisms and tried to not be so much of a burden—except he was shit at trying to take care of other people in a healthy, consistent way, especially you.

_You should check on Eightie and see how she’s doing._

_Hey, Eightie seems a little down, don’t you think?_

_Klaus, I really think we should check on Eightie._

_Ask her how her day is, Klaus. Ask her if there’s anything you can do for her. Be nice._

But since it had always been Ben, Klaus rarely ever made good on his suggestions.

After a moment, Klaus simply puts his head against the cold window. He closes his eyes and forces his lower lip not to tremble.

Ben had screamed your name at the top of his lungs that morning when Klaus wouldn’t wake up. He tried to hold you, to hit you, to get you to realize that _he was still there,_ that you didn’t need to do this to yourself _._ But he was helpless, and he watched you kick a stool out from under your bare feet—he distantly remembered crying out. Then you made a little, broken noise when your weight bore down around the rope, but you didn’t thrash, you didn’t choke, you didn’t—die.

And it came as an aching relief to Ben in spite of his uselessness. The relief immediately fled, however, leaving behind pure ache when you let yourself stay there, too empty to get down.

He won’t tell Klaus how long you hung there in the gray of the silent attic before Vanya finally found you.

“Why…” Diego’s tone comes out snapping, so it takes everything in him to pull it back. With Vanya next to him and her powers out in the open, he can’t afford to upset her and kill everyone in the car. When he speaks again, his words come out purposefully flat. “Why didn’t you put it in the book?”

Vanya swallows. “Eight, she supported my book from the start. But she…the only thing she asked I leave out was her attempt. I, I think she’s ashamed of ever having tried. She feels stupid because she knew it wouldn’t kill her, but the fact that she was so _desperate…”_

The radio distorts for a second. Vanya takes a breath and holds her hands more tightly in her lap. “She didn’t want any of you to find out she had…broken.” A bitter laugh escapes from her. “And she’s not going to be happy I told you.”

“How come she wouldn’t want us to find out about it? Never tells us?” Allison asks quietly, afraid to break too much of the grim silence in the car. All she can imagine is you on that rope, not crying, just… _there._ She doesn’t want to picture it, but she can see you in your academy pajamas, see you in the attic, see you whispering to Vanya not to tell anyone with the rope beside you.

“Why do you think?” Vanya questions back. “It’s Eight. She has to make sure all of us see her as…”

“Indestructible,” Luther finishes.

“Yeah. Indestructible.”

As hard as he tries to conjure memories of you in the wake of Ben’s death, Luther can’t see anything but you standing out in the snowy courtyard, openly defying Dad, strong. That’s how he always viewed it. Of course you grieved, but…it had been that bad?

And he never saw it. Number One, the leader, never saw his teammate, his family, _you_ truly suffer. He never thought he needed to. And there lies the problem.

_Is your sister alright?_

Patch’s question rings in Diego’s head. He never did check, did he? Honestly, he had…forgotten it entirely.

He runs a hand over his scalp and then finds the same fist involuntarily slamming to the side of the car door.

Five has remained silent the entire drive back. He can’t decide on anger or despair or disassociation, so it leaves him paralyzed with an indistinguishable frown. All the endless, overlapping thoughts create static in his skull.

“I’m…sorry for saying none of you were there for her,” Vanya says. “I didn’t actually mean it.”

“Nah,” Diego murmurs. “You meant it.”

“No, I—”

“You may feel bad for saying it, but that doesn’t make it any less true,” he goes on tiredly. “And you’re right.”

“But hey,” Klaus says as he lifts his head a little from the window. He wants to distract himself from the cold truth currently eating away at his heart. “Look which little miss used her powers? All it took was thirty years of pent-up emotion to get it working. Bet there’s plenty more where that came from.”

The statement, however, only reminds them of the impending apocalypse. Klaus grimaces and thumps his head back against the window.

“I need to learn how to control it,” Vanya lowly speaks. “Or just keep on my meds.”

Part of Allison wants to tell Vanya she shouldn’t have to be under Dad’s control anymore and that they will all help her with this new power. The other part of her wants to say that she should take her medicine until all this blows over, which will hopefully prevent the apocalypse. Because she knows as well as the others that the power they tasted out in the field was a scratch at the surface of something vast.

“We’ll keep both in mind,” Luther concedes when Allison, Diego, Klaus, and Five fail to respond. He haltingly reaches to the front seat and pats her shoulder.

The family, soaked to the bone, sits in an overpowering silence. Allison wipes away a tear in the dark. Vanya rubs a thumb over her burn scar repetitively. Nobody has the right words—or words that won’t start a fight.

Then the single flash of red and blue police lights comes racing down the rainy road, illuminating the night. Five tenses. The lights fly past, but Five catches the glimpse of a familiar car. The cop’s.

“That’s Eudora,” Diego affirms, sitting up in his seat. Five slows just as the car spins around behind them and catches up. He jerkily rolls down the window while the cop’s car pulls up beside them.

The police lights turn her face shades of red and blue and white. Over the sound of rain and thunder and engines, Patch shouts, “Eight showed back up with one of those time assassins! Then he duked it out with his partner at the house! I—I tried to stop her from leaving, but—she went back to her apartment—”

Patch angrily yells, “Wait!” as Five takes off without letting her finish.

She mutters a curse under her breath and pushes down on the gas pedal to match Five’s unholy speed. “Why the hell doesn’t _anyone_ in this family listen to me?”

You told her not to follow. Patch understood the connotation in your words. You didn’t want her to be thrown in a dilemma of whatever the hell is going on with this family and the law.

Because beneath the mud and rain and exhaustion, there was murder in your eyes.

-

“The car’s gone. Shit.” You unbuckle yourself and get out. Hazel does as well.

“Best guess is they’re running around trying to look for you,” he says. The two of you start walking to the front door of the house. “Or whoever buried you.”

“It was my sister’s psycho boyfriend.” You glance at Hazel. “Long story. They might have figured that out. I’m not sure.”

“I don’t like this.”

“Well, we can’t do anything about it at the moment, so might as well come in and apologize to Pogo and Mom for ruining the…foyer…”

The new lock on the door has been shot off. You frown. You’re too tired for dealing with any more shit, but here you go anyway.

Hazel pulls out his gun. You push the door open as silently as you can. It swings without creaking. Suddenly hyper-alert, you keep your footsteps light. Even though you’re barefoot, you can’t risk your skin squeaking against the tile. Hazel, for his size, doesn’t make a sound behind you.

It doesn’t matter in the end. Cha-Cha has been just as well-trained. She comes out from behind the sitting room wall and stands in the entrance. Her gun points straight at Patch’s head.

“You son of a bitch,” she spits. “You fucking son of a bitch.”

“Cha-Cha, look—” Hazel starts.

She presses her gun against Patch’s head more. You tense. You can feel warmth growing inside your body, from the center of your chest all the way down to your fingertips. You lock eyes with Patch. She isn’t scared—just pissed. With only a subtle change in your expression, you silently ask Patch if Mom and Pogo are alright. She replies that they are with a firm gaze.

“You thought you could get away with this? Huh? Stab me in the back and leave me to rot? I don’t think so, shithead. Now put the gun down. That’s it. Kick it away.”

The sound of Hazel’s weapon sliding across the floor echoes in your ears.

Cha-Cha lets out a bitter laugh. “You just _had_ to go and dig up the freak, didn’t you? It won’t make a difference. I’m going to kill you, then the cop and the chimp and the robot because I am fucking _pissed._ And then guess what? I’ll take that briefcase and let this entire goddamn family burn up with the rest of the world.”

You and Hazel can’t do much. Cha-Cha has Patch in a compromising position. One move, and she won’t hesitate to scatter Patch’s brains across the checkered marble.

“And me?” you ask quietly. Your voice coils in your sore throat, scales slithering across jagged rocks. “What are you going to do about me?”

Cha-Cha glares. “Doesn’t matter, does it? You can’t do a damn thing without me killing this bitch right here.”

“At least I’m a bitch who doesn’t smell like _shit,”_ Patch hisses.

From behind Cha-Cha, you see a familiar figure quietly come into view. Pogo. He creeps forward, inch by inch, slowly raising his cane. His primate feet give him better grip on the floor, making him virtually undetectable by sound. Cha-Cha doesn’t notice his presence, perhaps because it’s not a human one.

“That’s technically a fallacy,” you say, using Five’s condescending smirk on your face. “Or at least a flaw in your logic. You say you’re going to kill everyone, but the only thing keeping _you_ alive right now is the fact that everyone is still alive. Once you kill them, then there’s nothing stopping _me_ from smashing your chest in.”

“Shut up, alright?”

“I did it once, you know.” You continue to distract her from sensing Pogo’s approach. “I had a bank robber down on the ground after he tried to shoot Ben. I didn’t mean to—I was just so _angry_ at him for trying to take my brother away from me that I lost control and _pushed_ my hands into his chest. Ever seen a sternum caved in? Heard it? It’s crunchy. Except this time, with you, Cha-Cha, I will _definitely_ mean it.”

She only scoffs. “You think you can even _try_ to intimidate me? I’ve killed—”

Cha-Cha only notices at the last second there’s someone behind her, but by then, Pogo’s cane is already swinging down on her skull. Patch shoves the arm with the gun up and away from her head, where it goes off into the high ceiling of the mansion a second later. Pogo’s cane cracks against Cha-Cha _hard,_ but she only lets out a frustrated cry. Patch shoves her back with a fierce shout and disarms her despite having a gun go off so close to her ear.

While this is happening, you charge forward. Cha-Cha doesn’t have time to react to you swiftly wrapping your arms around her waist. You tackle her to the unforgiving ground, the full weight of your overtly heavy body slamming into hers. Cha-Cha wheezes as air is knocked from her lungs. You get up because you care more about Patch and Pogo getting somewhere safe.

“Pogo, _thank you,”_ you gush, taking his hand when he stretches it out to you. Patch grabs Cha-Cha’s gun and tucks it into the back of her trousers.

“It is repayment for putting the house into such disarray,” he replies.

You usher Patch and Pogo back through the sitting room entrance and glance back at the assassins. Cha-Cha’s job occupation makes her unsurprisingly resilient to getting hit by over two hundred pounds. She gets back to her feet with more steadiness than a normal person. Hazel rolls his shoulders and takes a few wary steps forward.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Cha-Cha,” he tries to plead.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, _Hazel.”_

You duck from view just as they collide, two people who know each other’s strengths and weaknesses to perfection. You’ll most likely need to go back and help because of one difference: Cha-Cha intends to kill.

“When will these people _quit?”_ Patch asks exasperatedly.

“Never, most likely,” you say back. Mom, who’s sweeping the floor near the mantle, looks up and smiles at you.

“Eightie, welcome home.”

“Hi, Mom. Are you okay?”

“Just peachy!” She clicks her tongue and sweetly says, “But somebody forgot to wipe their feet at the door.”

You wiggle your bare toes. “Sorry.” Turning to Patch, you say, “How long has Cha-Cha been here?”

“For about an hour. Came just after everyone left to get the Commission off their trail. They almost had you earlier, but assassins were waiting for them with guns and rocket launchers, apparently.”

“Fuck,” you whisper. Memories of the earth shuddering in the dark come to you. They _had_ tried to save you from your fate. “That’s shitty.”

In the foyer, Cha-Cha screams in fury, followed by a pained yell by Hazel. “What’re we going to do about those assholes?” Patch says to you.

“Well, Hazel _did_ save me himself, so I’d like him to live. And, well, Cha-Cha, I want to kill her, but I think she could possibly be a source of information, so if we incapacitated her, we could lock her up somewhere and set to questioning.”

“Your father built an interrogation room underneath the house,” Pogo says. “We may keep her there as long as you see fit.”

You suck in a breath. “Yeah, of course he did, why wouldn’t he? It’s Dad. Okay. Well. Let’s get her down there. I’ve got other places to be.”

“Where?” Patch hisses, grabbing your arm to stop you from going back to the foyer. “Eight, just _stay here_ and wait for your family to come back. Is that hard?”

She holds strong against your stare. “I think,” you say slowly, but your eyes burn bright with something any person in their right mind would be afraid of, “you should make sure Cha-Cha is secured and Hazel doesn’t try any funny business. You don’t need to come with me. I won’t be long.”

“Eight—”

Patch can’t hold onto your steel arm, so she makes sure you hear her loud, frustrated sigh when you leave. “No, no, nobody listen to the one with common sense,” she says to herself, but it gets a sympathetic chuckle from Pogo.

You stride back into the foyer. Cha-Cha’s back is to you. She currently has wire wrapped around Hazel’s throat, who’s down on his knees and desperately trying to dig fingers between his neck and the wire. You don’t waste energy being stealthy.

Cha-Cha swears when she sees that it’s you coming at her, and she sweeps a leg out to hit you while maintaining her grip on the wire. You deflect it with an arm. Her tibia cracks against you, and she lets out a grunt of pain. You reach over to snatch her Commission tie and spin her around to face you. It forces her grip to loosen on the wire, and Hazel starts to violently cough as air returns to him. Cha-Cha’s eyes widen a second before she realizes what you’re about to do to you. She tries to break free by trying to kick your kneecap inward. It must have been an instinctive attempt because it only yields another cry.

The cry, however, is cut short when you use Cha-Cha’s tie to pull her into your head butt.

You ensure the bash is precise so you don’t accidentally bust her skull.

In an instant, Cha-Cha slumps backward and falls to the ground. Hazel staggers upright. He rubs his neck and gets out a few more coughs to clear his airway.

“Took you long enough!” he hoarsely exclaims.

“Ah, you were fine,” you shrug. Hazel groans. “Pogo will show you a cell to put her in. I’m sure Mom will love cleaning your suit. She’ll give you something to eat, too.”

“And why…hey, where are you going?”

You stop, a hand on the edge of the door. Rain drizzles just beyond in a dark world that contrasts with the warm, low lighting of the house.

Just above a whisper, you say, “Do you really need to ask?”

When you glance back at Hazel, he sees a young face sculpted with a legendary, freezing fury.

Then you slip out like a shadow, barefoot and damp and vengeful.

-

It doesn’t take long to return to your apartment. You run in a full-out sprint, and since it’s late and cold and rainy, you have few people to worry about bumping into. Your chest remains warm, like a cinder was dropped right into your chest cavity. You don’t have a plan—only pure _intent._

The apartment door is unlocked. When you cautiously step in, you don’t see anyone else. You’re not sure what you would have done if Vanya or any other member of your family had been here. It’s good you’re alone. It’s good. Soon, you won’t be, but you expect that much. Count on it. _Want_ it.

You sit in the small armchair you and Vanya found a few years back at a Goodwill. You keep to the edge of the cushion to not get the chair wet. It faces the television. You turn on the lamp beside it.

The silence beckons, but you can’t afford to linger in its sea. You’ve waded in too much of it today with being buried. Dirt still clings in the crevices of your mouth. The box is overflowing, but you can only pile more next to it like trash bags around a crowded dumpster. With any luck, though, what you hope to do may mitigate the sheer amount.

This time, you recognize the polite knock on the door.

You stand up and walk over. The doorknob is cool under your touch. You turn it.

Leonard Peabody, who did not expect the person he buried hours ago to greet him with a wan smile, pales in horror.

He fumbles for something in his pocket, but you grab the collar of his shirt and throw him into the apartment. He thuds to the floor with a wheeze. You kick the door shut behind you, and in one fell swoop, you have your arms wrapped around his doughy throat. A foot pins the hand that struggles to reach for most likely the spray he had gotten you with earlier, and to keep him where he is, you have your other kneecap jammed into his chest.

You lean into your weight. Light ribbons across the skin on your hands and faintly illuminates the edge of your vision like tinges of an aurora. Leonard chokes for air. His face begins to turn blue, and his free hand slaps against your side, arm, shoulder, face. It’s nothing more than a fly to a mountain. The mild stink of burning flesh fills your nostrils.

“Did you _honestly_ think you could destroy us? Destroy _me?”_ you hiss. Unhinged rage explodes over and over in your chest. You bare your teeth at Leonard. His mouth open and closes like a fish. His pain comes out in a wheeze as you dig your knee further into his chest, which makes two small popping noises. Your fingers tighten around his neck, and it feels so _good_ to see the terror in his bulging brown eyes. His unpinned hand falls limply to the side, knuckles rapping against hardwood floor. Thunder rolls outside, and the electricity dims for a second. As it does, you briefly light up the apartment, but the light is not good or kind or pure. The light is ruthless. Nothing can hide from it.

“And do you want to know something, _Leonard?”_ You lean in a fraction. The words dance off your tongue in ragged, musical fury. “I don’t even care what you tried to do to me. But you want to hurt _my sister,_ and that’s why I’m going to fucking. Kill. You.”

A grin slashes across your face, but it immediately twists into a wild snarl. Your chest burns. The box burns. Another pop in his sternum. Blood runs from his nose and across mottled blue and purple and red skin. You shove into his throat with all your weight and strength behind it. Leonard has no air left in him to make a noise, let alone any last word. His windpipe caves completely under your steel hands, folding and cracking and crunching.

He dies in silence.

You keep squeezing for a few seconds longer just to _make sure._

Then it’s over. The radiator kicks on. You lift your hands, your knee, your foot, and stand up. You swipe a strand of wet hair from your forehead. The light fades, as does the warmth in your chest.

Fuck, you’re tired.

You take the loose messenger bag from Leonard’s corpse and bring it back to the chair. You sit down again. Unclipping it, you search the contents and find a sturdy, red leather book that taunted you throughout your childhood.

_R.H._

A finger runs over the gold engraving. It creates a temptation in you. At first, you resist. You don’t want to read anything that bastard had to say about you or your family. You should start a fire in the fireplace and watch it burn.

But you open to a random page, then idly flip until you find any mention of _Number Eight._

In Dad’s neat, scrawled writing, he put:

_The secondary effect of Number Eight’s physical light phenomenon has not grown in strength since reacting to Number Seven’s suppressed power during the expulsion of her reproductive organ. It is more clearly a visible reaction to physical safeguarding and not merely emotional changes as previously theorized._

You turn a few more pages and skim through information you already know about yourself until you come across something new.

_The light phenomenon may be manipulated by Number Eight. However, to pass its properties to another may only kill the possessed, as the phenomenon may recognize a foreign body as a threat to be scourged, particularly if the possessed is currently in physical pain._

Near the end of the book, you find one final mention of you and your power.

_I put forth a preliminary hypothesis that the light phenomenon will be the activating agent in Number Eight’s own internal shutdown. As there is too little evidence and too much risk to conduct proper experimentation, it is my belief that this result will only be clear during the point of organ failure—_

You shut the book. Your breathing is uneven. Phantom pain clouds your abdomen.

Shut up. Shut up.

The book thuds at your feet. You lean back in the chair. You don’t sleep, but you do give your (apparently) time bomb of a body a break.

Dad forced Vanya’s powers to be dormant because he was afraid of what they’d do instead of teaching her to fully control it. His _hypothesizing_ and _theorizing_ is absolute shit. You’re not going to buy into it.

Mostly.

When your eyes open again, they open to the sound of people bursting through the door.

Luther tries shielding Vanya from the body lying in her apartment, but he doesn’t do it in time. Vanya screams Leonard’s name and rushes to his side. Her panicked, horrified state sends pulsations through the air. “Vanya, Vanya, you need to _keep calm,”_ Allison tries to soothe, pulling Vanya into her arms and away from the body. “Shh, shh, it’s okay.”

What you’ve done to the creep is not a pretty sight. Diego bites back his grimace. Blood soaks the front of the creep’s plaid shirt, which sticks to a concaved chest. His throat, freshly singed, has been crushed entirely, leaving behind a mangled neck that doesn’t look natural with the rest of his body.

“Yikes,” Klaus mutters to Ben. “Almost forgot what it looks like when Eightie kills someone.”

“Brutal,” Ben agrees.

Five puts his hands in his pockets. The assassin side of him commends you for such a vicious kill. Getting rid of the boyfriend has also given them a better chance at preventing the apocalypse.

You don’t move from your chair, though, which concerns him.

“He was the one who buried me,” you say when Vanya’s sobs have been muffled enough for them to hear your voice. “He had Dad’s book, too. That’s how he knew to get me with an aerosol poison. And since I react poorly to pain, that made it even easier.”

You pick the red book off the floor and hoist it aloft. Luther warily approaches and takes it from you. “Yeah, this is it,” he affirms.

Vanya sniffs, and the shock on her face makes Five feel bad for her. First you’re kidnapped, then she finds out she has powers, then she has to come to terms with her dead boyfriend’s twisted agenda for her and her family. “What…?” she whispers.

“Leonard wanted to tear this family from the inside out,” you go on. “He targeted you, thinking you were the most vulnerable _and_ the most powerful. But when I proved to be a problem to his plans, he…tried taking me out of the equation.”

“I don’t—I don’t understand—”

You try getting out of the chair, but your muscles fail you. Or perhaps it’s your will.

All you can muster is, “I’m so sorry, Vanya.”

Her cries are replaced with shocked quiet. You’re not sure if that’s better or worse.

“Diego, Luther,” Five says, snapping his fingers, “get this body taken care of.”

“Who do you think—” Diego starts, but Five is already ignoring him.

He walks over to you and crouches onto one knee. You meet his gaze and attempt to smile, but it doesn’t quite form. It’s unnerving to see his own worry toward you, which pulls the corners of his lips taut.

“Hey, Tee.” He does manage a smile for you. It’s a mixture of weariness and care. The quintessential Five. “Rough day?”

“Something like that,” you say back. Mud still cakes your hair and clothes.

Slowly, you lower your head until it thumps against Five’s shoulder. He stiffens but doesn’t move. You close your eyes and breathe evenly. Something eases in you. Five lifts his hand to pat the back of your head. He pauses, fingers flexing outward, suddenly unsure if it’s the right thing to do. He’s…out-of-practice when it comes to comfort. Shit, who’s he kidding—he’d never been _in_ practice. That was always your thing. And you, no doubt, don’t expect anything from him because of who you are, because of who he is.

Five isn’t accustomed to _uncertainty._

Except, he thinks, this isn’t about him.

His hand rests on cold, wet hair. Your breath momentarily becomes wavering, and it seizes Five’s heart. For a second, he figures he’s made the wrong gesture. He goes to remove the touch.

You grab the lapel of his blazer, which lingers with rain. It twists in your grasp. Your breathing returns to normal. Five relaxes a fraction. He keeps his hand right where it is.

In the background, Diego and Luther tersely argue about how they’re going to get the body out of the apartment without trying to be too loud for Vanya’s sake, who has moved to the couch with Allison and her back purposefully turned away from the scene. Klaus gets himself a drink in the kitchen while whistling some tune. Ben stares out the window to see if Detective Patch will stay in her car and keep some modicum of boundaries as a police officer or get out and fully join the chaos of this family.

Five looks around the room before his gaze lands on the glint of your metal Umbrella Academy band. You’re here with all of them again. With him.

Relief has been a rare thing for most of his life, and it leaves an odd sensation in his chest. Not unwanted. Simply…strange.

He inhales and exhales. The urge to hold you almost overtakes him, but he’s too much of a coward to act on it. Instead, Five settles on leaning his head against yours, just for a little while.

And, well, he supposes it’s not the _worst_ end to this shitty day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=0AIv29xwRDOvnYKoIR02Ug)
> 
> I legit hate Leonard so much it was a struggle to even write his name


	26. tomorrow is another day, and you won't have to hide away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Run Boy Run"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0boS4e6uXwp3zAvz1mLxZS?si=FFLTnvp4TfWbEMQjoHOR_w)

You all watch Luther heft the corpse up over a shoulder. He’s been wrapped in old bedsheets and duct taped for extra measure. Vanya has stopped crying. She holds your hand. Any fleeting fondness for her now ex-boyfriend is overshadowed by her love for you. He wanted you gone. She holds no remorse for his death—just immense guilt that she allowed him into her life in the first place and you got hurt because of it.

Patch waits outside of her car, arms folded. The rain is finally subsiding. She purses her lips when she sees what Luther carries. Then, to Diego, she jerks her head and says, “Come on. I know a place.”

Diego smiles at her. It’s sad. He understands what she’s giving up for them.

You split up. Patch takes Diego and Luther and the corpse in her car. Nobody speaks about the risk this puts her in, but she gives off the energy that growls, _just say something, I dare you._

The rest of you get into Dad’s car. You note how banged-up it is with bullets and shrapnel. Your own car, whose window is still broken, probably has a soaked driver’s side. You’re too tired to think about how unhappy it makes you.

You sit in the front seat with Vanya. Five drives. Allison, Klaus, and Ben sit in the back. You put your head on Vanya’s shoulder. It’s not going to be a very long drive back to the house, but you take the rare moment of reprieve to at least shut your eyes for a second. You’re almost able to doze, but the odd sensation in the air is too distracting.

“Alright,” you murmur, eyes still closed, “what happened? You’re all still acting _way_ too depressed for just getting me back.”

Five clears his throat. Vanya’s shoulder tenses under your temple. You hear Klaus mutter, “Shit,” under his breath.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Five says. “It’s nothing bad. Don’t worry.”

Liar.

You sigh. “Jeez, okay. But don’t think I’m going to forget it.”

“So, Eightie,” Klaus says, pushing himself forward to prop both elbows right next to you, “what was it liked being _buried?”_

“Klaus!” Allison slaps his back. He yelps. “What the hell?”

“What? It should be _talked_ about, right?”

“Yeah, but not right now!”

“Ah, it’s fine,” you say. “I don’t mind talking about it. There's not much to talk about, really. I about lost my shit in there because I couldn’t do anything about the pain. But I did get to spend some quality time with myself, which was very enlightening. Also, I had no idea blood tasted like that.”

“How did you survive?” Klaus follows up. You don’t miss how purposeful he’s being in conversation. Forced, almost. Or rusty.

“My _light_ preserved me,” you reply with a wave of your hand. “Kind of like when I had the Monster Period but on a much lower level.”

You don’t mention what you read in Dad’s book about you and your light.

“Ahh, the good ol’ Monster Period,” Klaus reminisces. “All of us boys had to have a _lesson_ with Mom about menstruation and the miracle of life after that. She showed us a video of a child being born. Diego passed out. Luther was biblically struck dumb for the rest of the day. Ben cried—yes, you did! I remember.”

“Poor Diego,” you grin. “How did you react?”

“Me? I was high, so I lost my absolute shit.”

“He screamed his head off,” Five wryly supplements. “Said something about it being worse than the Horror.”

“That sounds about right,” Vanya chuckles while you, Allison, and Klaus laugh.

“And what about you, Five?” you ask. “What did you do?”

“I acted like an actual adult about it all, obviously.”

“Boring,” Allison scoffs. “You didn’t act like an actual adult during our dancing lessons, remember?”

“Aw, come on,” says Klaus. He pats Five on the head, who jerks out from under Klaus’ palm with a scowl. “It’s not his fault he has no rhythm!”

“It never bothered me,” you add, still smiling. “He always stepped on my toes, but it’s not like it hurt me. One time, I told him just to stand on my feet, and I’d pretend like he was leading me. But it just made him mad and pouty.”

“I did not get _mad and pouty,”_ Five corrects with a stern finger lifting off the wheel. He pauses, then reluctantly says, “Frustrated is a better term.”

“It’s because if he loosened up a little, that piece of coal in his ass would have plopped right out onto the floor,” Klaus says, then makes a _plink_ sound by flicking the side of his cheek with a finger. “I wonder if it’s still there to this very day. It’d be a diamond by now. Could be worth something. Or did its age reverse with yours?”

“No, its consciousness is a diamond,” Allison says with faux-primness, “but its physical appearance is still a coal.”

Vanya snorts in amusement. It’s a good sound to hear coming from her. You’re worried about how she’s taking all this in, especially with her powers now present.

“Or,” you pose, “time travel has turned it into an acorn.”

That, for some reason, causes everyone in the car to fall into a bout of giggles. Except for Five, of course, but you open an eye just enough to glance at him sidelong. He suppresses his grin for the most part, but it peeks through for a brief moment.

“You’re all idiots,” he declares. You learned a long time ago, however, that when Five relies on the “idiot” insult or other unwitty jabs to intelligence, it means he can’t come up with a more biting reply.

It does nothing to your reactions. You don’t think he intended it to.

Your throat still hurts from the spray, but the laughter still bubbling through combats the foul taste of dirt and chemicals lingering in your mouth.

“So,” Five says when your giggles die down, “back on the topic of you getting undug—which one of the drones got you out?”

“Hazel,” you answer. “He and Cha-Cha were apparently tailing me because, guess what, their orders were to forget about you and eliminate me instead. They saw me get taken and followed along to see where I got buried. Hazel’s been having a hard time lately; love does that to a person. Makes them break all sorts of orders. He wants the briefcase in the trunk to go rogue.”

“Wait—what? _You’re_ the one with the kill order? Not me?”

“I was just as surprised as you are,” you say with a shrug. “But Hazel figured he would be on better negotiation terms if he dug me out himself. Cha-Cha got suspicious of him, though, and wound up at the house before we got back. She’s in a cell Dad built under the mansion, apparently. Out of all the shit-crazy things that’ve happened today, learning about secret underground stuff is, like, the mildest.”

Everyone murmurs in agreement.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Five says, brows furrowed. “Why would the Commission change orders to go after you instead? You’re not the one who jumped through time and tattled about the apocalypse.”

“Think about it, Five.”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. Vanya, Klaus, and Allison are subjected to the age-old, slightly infuriating quiet that ensues while the two of you have a private, mental conversation. Then Five growls, “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on?” Allison questions with a slight huff.

“Nothing good,” Five replies.

It’s because of you—because of him—that Vanya’s powers surfaced more fully. If the Commission wants the apocalypse to happen, then they just need to get rid of you. Not only will it make Vanya more susceptible to exploding because she can’t deal with the loss, but the sheer _influence_ you have over the family will put them into disarray without it. Hell, they barely handled doing something together with you absent, and the only reason why they managed not to kill each other was because they did it for you. But if you’re _gone_ gone…

A good plan from whatever case management shit heel concocted it, Five will admit.

“Obviously, they still want to kill you,” you say to him.

“We’ve all wanted to,” says Klaus.

You chuckle and go on. “But you’re not at the top of the list anymore. Sorry. I’m just…too cool, I guess.”

“The Commission isn’t going to give us time to gather ourselves,” Five says sourly, “especially when we’re all at one place in the house. We either need to get out of the city or use the briefcase to jump to a different point in time. It won’t shake them forever, but it’ll give us time to make a plan.”

“But Hazel needs the briefcase,” you point out.

“Eightie, no offense, but I don’t give a shit about Hazel. He’s just a Commission drone—”

 _“You_ were a Commission drone, Five. And Hazel undug me—”

“We would have undug you if it hadn’t been for him going and messing things up—”

“I promised him he would take the briefcase in exchange—”

“Promises are _conditional—”_

You open your eyes and sit up straight with a groan. “Five, you’re thinking on a _short-term_ level.”

“Excuse me?” he sneers.

“Giving the briefcase to Hazel will create a friendship. We’ll have one more person on our side when we take on the Commission, which we will _undoubtedly_ have to do if we don’t want to be hounded for the rest of our lives.”

“Friendship? _Friendship?_ I’m sorry, I thought you had the brain of a thirty-year-old, not— _ouch!”_

You pinch the bare skin of his leg to get him to shut up. _“Alliance,_ then, to make you understand better. I think he already half-expects a betrayal—”

“And he should!”

“Five, let me _finish,_ holy fuck.”

You stare at him, waiting for another interruption. He sinks into a sullen glare but stays quiet. This is the _other_ kind of conversation that used to happen between them. Klaus thinks it’s hilarious to see Five so wilted under your gaze, acting like the petulant little boy he really is deep down.

“Thank you. If we _don’t_ betray him, if we give him the briefcase, then we’re showing him we can be trusted. If we can be trusted, then guess what? He’d be more obligated to help us when we need it. And honestly? I don’t want to backstab Hazel or anyone in general. That’s so mean. We have so few people to rely on, Five—we _need_ to think of the future ahead instead of what’s immediately in front of us.”

After a short, dour silence, Five says, “You talk like the apocalypse isn’t four days away. That makes the _future ahead_ and _what’s immediately in front of us_ basically the same.”

“Don’t try to get twisty with my words just because you know I’m right.”

He sighs like he faces the biggest inconvenience in the world. “Fine. Fine. Hazel will get his stupid briefcase. But it still leaves _us_ with no possible way to get anywhere close to the Commission. And the goons they send after me aren’t high enough ranking to carry briefcases of their own—they get dropped off by those with briefcases, who then promptly return to the Commission base.”

“Easy fix. We ambush them before those with the briefcases can pop back out.”

“Easy my ass. It’ll be near-impossible!”

You smirk and airily say, “Well, I mean, if you want to give up _that_ quickly, then we’ll just have to do it without you…”

“Okay, okay, shut up. Have I said you’re insufferable lately? Because I feel like I haven’t stated the obvious in a while.”

“There is _someone_ insufferable in this car,” Allison says, “but I’m not sure it’s Eightie.”

Something rolls next to your bare foot. You reach down and pick up a stick of men’s deodorant. “Oh, sweet,” you mutter, then uncap it and shove the stick under your drying shirt. Beside you, Vanya makes a small disgusted noise for some reason. After you drop it back onto the floor, Klaus shoves a packaged Zebra Cake in your face from the backseat.

“Ooh, perfect. Thanks.”

-

With a can of lighter fluid and a packet of matches later, Patch, Diego, and Luther stand several feet away from a barrel burning in an obscure area of an abandoned warehouse plot. Once the remains are nothing but ash, they’ll stick a metal lid back on it and leave the barrel to be forgotten by the world.

“Hey, Luther,” Diego says.

“Yeah?”

“It…it was me who took Dad’s monocle.”

“What?”

“I found it on Mom. She took it for cleaning. I didn’t want you to lose your shit on her. So, I kept it.”

“Where is it now?”

“I, uh, it’s gone.” Awkwardly, Diego adds, “Sorry.”

Luther sighs. “It’s alright. Compared to everything that’s happened, it doesn’t seem like that big of a deal anymore.”

They don’t say anything else.

When Diego sees Patch choking back angry tears in the firelight of a corpse burning in a barrel, his fingers tentatively reach out to her hand. She doesn’t draw away, so he takes it. They don’t say anything, either. Not out loud, at least.

The rainstorm subsides, leaving behind its scent mixed with asphalt and iron and earth.

-

Hazel, to your relief, stayed at the house to wait for the briefcase. He lets out a breath when you come packing it in.

“Here. As promised.”

Five audibly grumbles as he watches you hand the briefcase off to Hazel. “Thank you,” he says. “Really. I—I mean it.”

“You’re welcome. But don’t get too comfy just yet. The Commission will be on your trail soon. I would remove your tracker as soon as you get the chance.”

“I’ll do that.” Hazel looks to Klaus, Allison, Vanya, and Five and offers a smile. “A-and, um, sorry for…the torture and stuff,” he says to Klaus.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it, big guy,” Klaus waves off. “You got our Eightie. Just get going to your little lady friend.”

Five approaches Hazel with a smile. “Just one more thing,” he says, then, in a flash, his hand flies up to punch Hazel across the face. You grimace because, out of everyone, Hazel has taken the most beatings from your family these past few days.

 _“That_ was for taking my brother,” he spits. Hazel, however, recovers quickly from the hit and straightens.

“I deserved it, probably.”

“Damn right you did. Now get out of this house before I have any other violent impulses.”

Hazel nods and, not wanting to face the wrath of Five more than he needs to, starts to make his exit. “Bye, Hazel,” you call. “Thanks again.”

“And thanks for this—” He hefts up the briefcase, then pauses and turns back to all of you. “I wouldn’t stay here if I were you. Oh, and…tell Cha-Cha I’m sorry.”

You watch him leave with the briefcase in tow. Five clicks his tongue. “Well, hope you’re right about this, Eightie.”

“I am.”

“What are we going to do about the Commission?” Vanya asks, leaning against a shot-up couch. “Get ready for another fight here?”

“Not another, _please,”_ Klaus whines. He sprawls himself across the same couch. “I’m so tired.”

“We’re all tired,” Five snaps. He heads to the bar to make himself a drink. You slump into an armchair, and a wave of exhaustion immediately slams into you. “But we don’t have a choice. We’ll do a stakeout on the roof and wait for a squad to show up on the front steps. If I get the timing right, I can jump down and snag a briefcase from one of the carriers, kill them, then jump back up before anybody notices.”

“We’ll still have to kill whoever shows up,” Allison says resignedly. She sits on Klaus’ legs.

“Thank you, Allison, for stating the obvious,” says Five.

“Hey, you don’t need to get all bitchy with me.”

“I think I reserve the right to bitch, given the circumstances.” Five starts to pour bourbon into a glass, but he decides against it at the last second and takes the entire bottle instead. You roll your eyes.

“I believe, Master Five, that I can offer a temporary solution to these circumstances.”

Pogo hobbles in. His cane rhythmically taps against the floor.

“What do you mean?”

Klaus sits up to listen. Vanya settles herself next to you on the chair’s arm.

“Your father…prepared for many threats, the Commission being one of them.”

“You’re kidding,” Five flatly remarks. He scoffs and takes a swig of alcohol. Pogo goes on.

“I am afraid not. Once I was informed of the current predicament your former employers put the family in, I set to work on rebooting a piece of machinery that would disrupt the Commission’s targeting system. It is…not a permanent fix, but it will allow you the proper chance to rest while being shielded from unwanted eyes.”

Fixated intrigue revitalizes Five to an almost worrisome degree. He sets the bottle aside. “Well, show me, Pogo.”

With a chuckle, Pogo says, “This way.”

You slump back in the chair. If you were more awake, you’d celebrate the fact that you don’t have to dodge the Commission for a little while. But you think you just mutter, “That’s great,” then curl up in a ball on the chair and promptly fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=B83gJFAaQqGb0Tnh85t9nQ)
> 
> I do feel a little bad for the whole thrown-in cloaking device thingy, but it will come more into play, I promise, and specifically why Hargreeves built it in the first place.


	27. i can't hide you, the rock cried out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Sinnerman"](https://open.spotify.com/track/3EIidirnGCYto1KtcNfttt?si=hNiBBV3CRueKuIPooMnBCA)

You button the plaid pinafore dress in front of the old mirror. Four more days until the apocalypse, and you have to wear an academy uniform yet again. It really is getting close to the end of the world.

Five jumps into the middle of your bedroom as you’re pulling knee-high socks up your legs. It’s only due to years of him doing the same exact thing that you don’t jump into the fucking ceiling. “Well, somebody’s finally awake,” he comments.

“It’s seven in the morning. And, um, it looks like _somebody_ didn’t sleep at all,” you say back. Dark circles hang under his eyes, and both his hair and uniform are disheveled.

“It was Dad’s machine,” Five replies hastily. He stalks over to the window. “I hate the old man’s guts, but damn did he know his tech. It’s a work of art. The temporal disruption alone is—” Five suddenly spins around, wide-eyed and crouching. “What the hell was that?”

“It’s your body telling you that _you need to sleep,”_ you sigh. “Holy shit, Five, you’re a mess.”

“I will admit that my mental capacity may not be at its peak performance, but I’m _fine.”_

“Oh, well, at least you’re admitting it. Nothing to worry about, then. You are obviously the best at self-care, so I won’t question you.”

He squints his blood-shot eyes at you. “I’ve never said it before, but you’ve always been shit at sarcasm. Worse than Vanya. I can see where she’s learned it from.”

You stand. Sleep turned out to be a _big_ help with your looming existential crisis. You don’t feel like you’re going to scrape your own skin off anymore.

“How long will the machine last?”

“For a couple days at least. Then it will run out of juice because the output is far greater than anything the input can continuously maintain. But _I_ think if I could just…”

Five keeps rambling as you step out of the room and go to his. You find who you’re looking for, pick her up, and take her back to your room. When Five sees you holding Delores up, he freezes like he’s been caught doing something bad.

You lift your brows. “Five…you need to sleep.”

Delores agrees. He scoffs.

“I _have_ slept,” he lies. “Eightie’s just being paranoid.”

Paranoid? If paranoid were a person, it’d be him right now.

“Woooow,” you drawl. “You’re really going to try and _fib_ your way out of this?”

“I can’t believe you drug Delores here!”

“Apparently, I needed to!”

You’re right, Delores says. She can’t believe him. He does realize that this is just going to make things worse later on, doesn’t he? Or has his brain finally fried after too many cups of coffee and not enough sleep?

“My brain isn’t _fried.”_

“It is!” you say with an exasperated laugh.

It is, Delores also says.

Five squirms now that he’s been backed into a corner. You set Delores down on your bed. She doubles down on the fact that he shouldn’t put himself and his family at risk by falling into sleep deprivation. She distracts him enough for you to inch toward Five—then you suddenly lunge and wrap your arms around his waist.

“Put—me—down!” he shouts. He immediately tries to jump away, but one side effect of not enough sleep is an energy shortage. Five’s powers make a few wimpy sounds before giving out.

You toss him onto your bed and wrangle him out of his loafers. “Ya know,” you say while Five struggles against you, “I would think that a grown-ass grandpa wouldn’t be acting like this, but then again, it is _you,_ and you _are_ being particularly cantankerous.”

“Cantankerous? _Cantankerous?”_

“Repeating what I just said in a more incredulous tone doesn’t really do much, Five.”

You toss the other shoe aside. It thuds on the floor. Next, you wrench him from his dirty, mud-and-blood-caked blazer. It’s stiff. You hold it away from you with a grimace. “Yuck. You’ve been… _fermenting_ in these clothes all night and all morning. I’ll have to tell Mom to change the sheets after.”

“There won’t be an _after,”_ Five argues, but the moment he involuntarily lets his head thump against the pillow, his eyelids droop.

A light laugh comes out of you at the sight. You reach down and squeeze his face, smooshing his lips to break the scowl. “You are absolutely ridiculous. I’ll come and wake you up in a few hours—or if something terrible has happened. And then you _need_ to take a shower because you smell like teen rage and mold. But until then?” You throw a blanket over him. “Get some damn sleep.”

You leave before Five can get some quip in. The door shuts behind you.

So far, this _machine_ has worked. The house wasn’t assaulted by Commission agents the entire night, and you hadn’t heard any gunfire this morning. It made you all the more suspicious of just what Dad knew about, just what he hid from all of you.

The contents of the book still cling to corners of your mind. You _were_ going to talk to Five about it, but that conversation would have to wait.

Luther is the only one up out of the entire family. He sits quietly at the kitchen and enjoys a cup of orange juice while reading the newspaper. When he hears you come in, he turns and says, “Oh, hey, morning, Eightie.”

“Good morning, Luther.” You grab an extra glass and pour yourself juice as well. You sit opposite of him. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Uh huh.” You prop your head on a hand and chuckle to yourself. “I just had to put Five to bed like a toddler because he stayed up all night obsessing over the temporal disruption machine Dad apparently built—” You suddenly straighten and circle your fingers over an eye to resemble a monocle. “‘To prepare for any threat!’”

Luther, fortunately, laughs at your impression.

Your grin slips to a smile, but the moment it does, he points a finger at you. “No, Eightie, it’s too early for—that.”

“For what?”

“Deep…emotional…stuff.”

“Psh, it’s _never_ too early.”

“I haven’t even had breakfast.”

“Do you need me to make breakfast, then?”

“N-no. Mom will…probably be here soon.”

But you’re already downing your cup of orange juice. Then you stand and start heating up a large pan. You grab one of Mom’s aprons and tie it around your waist. “Do you want scrambled eggs or fried eggs?”

“Eightie…”

“Luther.”

“You…you can’t say that it’s never too early for emotional stuff and then turn around and make yourself busy so _you_ don’t have to deal with your own…emotional stuff.”

“It’s called a distraction, Luther, come on, let me have this one.”

He huffs. “Fine. Scrambled.”

“On it.”

You get to cracking eggs in the pan and whisking them together with a good splash of milk. To delay the emotional, the two of you talk about the past, particularly about fighting bad guys together and all the cool moves you recall the other doing.

“And—remember when you deflected that bullet with the back of your hand? Swatted it away?”

“Yeah, and then that one guy tried to tackle you, but you just threw him _all_ the way across the hall like a discus?”

“You had me throw _you_ at the missile so you could disarm it manually because Five was preoccupied with, like, ten bad guys and couldn’t get to it himself.”

“You _caught_ that spear mid-air!”

“I could not believe you tried to bust through the vault door all by yourself. All it did was leave a dent in the shape of your head.”

“Then you just went _whoosh_ and knocked everyone backward without even breaking a sweat. It was such a superhero moment.”

Vanya likes her eggs cheesy, so you automatically grate cheddar cheese onto them once they get closer to being done. Luther watches you take the pan with your bare hand and toss an oven pad on the kitchen table. You set the pan in between you, grab a couple forks, and give one to Luther. Reminiscing has left the both of you with fond smiles.

“No plates?”

“Nah. Vanya and I usually just eat them like this in the morning. Saves on washing dishes.” You smirk. “We can be pretty lazy sometimes.”

“Seems smart to me.” Luther digs in. You have to sit up on your knees in order to reach the eggs, but you start scooping up hearty mouthfuls. You pour yourself and Luther another glass of orange juice. “Hey,” he says after eating some eggs, “these aren’t bad at all.”

“Thank you. I’ve made _a lot_ of scrambled eggs over the years, so I’m glad they’re decent. Sometimes, Vanya and I were so poor that we could barely even afford eggs, let alone pay rent and utilities.” You take a moment to swallow the food in your mouth. It gives you enough time to pause before you say, “I wish you had come with us. We’re pretty boring, but…we went out in the world and you were left all alone in this house.”

Luther gives his head a small shake. “My responsibility as Number One kept me here. I…I’m not sure what I would have done if I just gave that up. Who I would have become.”

“And do you like who you are now?”

He flatly stares at you. “What?” you question with a shrug of your shoulders. “I’m being serious, Luther. I’m not trying to disparage you.”

“That’s a loaded question, Eightie. Even I can see it.”

“Loaded with love.”

“What?”

“Tell me what happened, Luther. What did Dad do to you?”

“Will it get you off my back if I answer?”

“Never.”

Luther looks at you exasperatedly, but he summarizes that night four years ago when he went on a mission alone and without his team, his family, and it cost him his body. Luther assures you that Dad saved his life, but you think he repeats it because he’s still trying to accept it himself. You listen without interrupting. Luther goes on to say how Dad sent him to the moon not long after, and that you and Allison are the only ones who know about the night when he was injected with the serum.

Just when Luther needed the most support, Dad shipped him off for four years to live in complete and utter isolation.

“That’s not right, Luther,” you say once you point it out. “He didn’t even give you time to _process_ the change.”

The eggs between you are gone, and the two of you eat slices of toast as a breakfast afterthought. “It wasn’t like I helped my case much,” he admits. “I could have called you or Allison or anyone, really. I just…didn’t want pity.”

“I wouldn’t have pitied you.”

“Uh huh.”

“I would have finally done the world and our family some good by punching that bastard in the face.”

Luther snorts. “Like he would let you land a punch on him.”

“He was old! I could have done it.” You pop the last bit of toast in your mouth. “You know what pisses me off the most? _You_ were the one who stuck around, and he still screwed you over. Sure, he saved your life, but you know what else would have saved your life? Not sending you on a mission you shouldn’t have gone on by yourself.”

“Well…” But Luther can’t come up with a good enough argument, so he simply mutters, “yeah.”

“Do you even know what he wanted with the samples you collected?”

A spark of suppressed curiosity gleams in Luther’s eyes. “No, but—but I always wondered what he did with them. Maybe…ah, never mind.”

“Maybe we should go into Dad’s study and snoop around?” you prompt with a smirk.

“I never said that.”

You stand up. “Well, _I’m_ going to snoop around before everyone else wakes up. If you want to join me, you can.”

“But it’s—his study—”

“Luther, the guy built a machine _specifically_ to thwart Commission tech should the need arise. He might have shit in there that could benefit us.”

You don’t mention what you read in Dad’s book—or how you want to see if you can find anything else to know if he’s right or not. You’re not getting obsessive. You’re not. Just…following up on a lead, that’s all.

It doesn’t take long for Luther to catch up with you. A smile darts across your lips, but you don’t say anything.

-

“He never…even looked at them.”

You sit on the floor of Dad’s study with Luther and unopened moon samples strewn all around you. He dwarfs you in size, but from the heartbroken look on his face, he seems…small. Vulnerable.

“Why not?”

Your throat just burns.

“Because he was an asshole, Luther,” you whisper. “Because…because…”

“Because Diego was right. Dad sent me to the moon because he couldn’t stand the sight of me.”

You crawl closer to him, pushing aside samples as you move. “No, no, that’s not…”

“Don’t lie to me, Eightie,” Luther snaps. Despondent tears shine in his eyes. “I… _gave_ my entire life up for him. I never left this house. I never had friends. I never moved on like the rest of you. And for what? For…for nothing.”

Guilt and anger and empathy eat away at your heart. Guilt because you persuaded Luther to come here to the study in the first place without thinking about what could happen to him if he found out the worst. Anger because Dad _screwed up_ the only child who ever gave a shit about him. Empathy because your brother’s heart is breaking right before your eyes and you can’t stop it.

You reach for his gloved hand. “I’m sorry, Luther,” you say. You sit back on your knees. Luther hangs his head. He doesn’t pull away from you.

He sniffs. “I’ve missed out on everything. On _living._ I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to…to…”

“Have fun?” you offer with a small smile. “Let loose?”

Luther nods “I wanna be like—do what Klaus does—”

“Oh, oh, _no_ you don’t,” you laugh.

“He parties and lives all carefree, though. It’s the exact opposite of how I’ve lived my life.” Luther talks with a little too much sudden enthusiasm.

“Whoa, hang on, one—if we step out of this house, the Commission will be on us. Two—let’s not jump straight into the _Lifestyle of Klaus_ quite yet. Even Klaus can’t handle it. We can, we can work our way up, alright? Like, mimosas?”

“I’ve never had a mimosa before,” Luther says with wide, bright puppy eyes. “Are they good?”

“Well, it’s a good start to day drinking, which is definitely living it up for me. I mean, I’m a pretty boring person, so if you want to ease into this, then let’s go by my standards and instead of Klaus’ standards. Deal?”

“Deal.”

You grin for Luther’s sake. When you both stand, he asks, “Did you, um, find anything else that might be of interest?”

“Nah.” A little more softly, you say, “It’s not important right now, anyway.”

-

“Woo hoo, what do we have _here?”_ Klaus claps his hands together when he saunters up to the bar. “Mimosas? _Without me?_ Luther, do you know that has…” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. _“Alcohol in it?”_

“He does,” you dryly say back.

“They’re really good,” Luther grins, pointing to the delicate flute held gingerly between his fingers. You’re not going to tell anyone he already broke two flutes before managing the right pressure to pick one up.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Klaus slides into a chair. He rubs at his eyes, which smears the eyeliner rimmed around them even more. “Dad’s damn sci-fi cloaking device? Or Five sleeping? I saw him in your bed, Eightie—he looked so _cute.”_

“Ah, neither, but Five sleeping should be cause for celebration,” you say. You take a sip of your own mimosa. Klaus whines for you to make him one. Instead of pouring champagne in, however, you uncap a glass bottle of 7-up you found underneath the bar counter and pour it in with the orange juice.

“Hey, hey, no! What the hell is that? That’s not a mimosa!”

“Klaus, do you honestly think I’m going to give you alcohol on an empty stomach? At least Luther and I have eaten. _And_ you need to be at your best in case you have to use your powers for something.”

He throws his head back and groans. “Eightieeeeeee.”

“Klaus? Just drink the damn fizzy orange juice.”

Pouting, he snatches the flute off the counter and airily lifts it up to examine it like some sommelier. “They say that a person who’s going sober shouldn’t be around other people who drink. It’s too tempting.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” you say with mild exasperation. “Luther is just having a rough morning, that’s all.”

“Oh no, what happened?”

You tip your champagne flute toward Luther as a nudge. Once he explains what they found in Dad’s study, Klaus sympathetically hisses and raises his glass.

“Well, he always was the worst!”

“I was actually wondering, Klaus, if you could maybe, you know, contact him?” Luther leans toward him. “I just need to hear what he has to say about all of this. Explain himself.”

Groaning, Klaus says, “Luther, don’t you think I’ve already tried? But the man is the same in death as in life! A _stubborn prick!_ Besides, I can already tell you what he’d say.” Klaus sets the drink down and stretches his eyelids out with his fingers. You laugh a little at the impersonation. “‘Number One!’” Klaus rasps in a pretty good imitation of Dad’s clipped voice. “‘It is a waste of time to dwell on one’s failures! One must go forward as one does! It is one’s responsibility! Number One! I shall never apologize for whatever it is you think I did! I did what I must! One must do what one does to preserve one’s dignity! Disappointment duty responsibility disappointment!’”

You laugh, and even Luther gives Klaus a begrudging smile. “Whatever explanation he’d give,” you say with carefully deliberate words, “wouldn’t be good enough for you or any of us. Dad never saw fault in his thinking and actions. Abusers, they don’t apologize.”

Klaus mimics a bomb dropping with his hand and makes explosion noises. “Eightie, hitting us with profound truths before noon!”

“I don’t _try,”_ you say somewhat defensively. “I’ve just played out so many scenes in my head of me telling Dad off that it’s just _there.”_ You pause, then go, “Actually, Klaus, call Dad up. I want to do it for real. Then I’d just—” You punch your fist through the air.

“You can’t punch ghosts, Eight. You wouldn’t even be able to _see_ him.”

“It’s about the intent. Also, you could just tell me where to go so I could drive my fist right through his head. Then my light would turn blue like it does with Ben. Right?”

You lift your hand up for a Ben-five. When no light sparks to life, you frown.

“He’s not here,” Klaus shrugs.

“Where is he?”

“No idea.”

-

If Ben were alive, if he could pick up a pen and write like he wanted to do since the second day of being dead, one of the first lines he would put down would be, _I blame myself for my sister’s attempted suicide, and I can never tell her._

But, in writing it, he would be telling you. He would be known. You would be known. _It_ would be known.

He is a spirit of guilt, and he’s sure you wouldn’t be happy about it. But just because he can guess your reaction doesn’t change the weight in the spot his heart is supposed to be.

“Ben? You in here? Knock knock.”

Despite the fact that you can’t see him, Ben jumps up from his bed like he’s been caught. You step into his room, smiling, and he _knew_ he shouldn’t have been thinking all that stuff. You have an impeccable radar for emotional turmoil, dead or alive. And because it’s your family, the radar has been going off nonstop since childhood.

“Klaus said you weren’t with him, so I wanted to come and find you. You’re almost always with him. I made mimosas because Luther is going through a crisis, but I forced him to drink orange juice and 7-up instead. You should have seen the _sulk_ I got.”

You extend your arm out tentatively. Ben sighs, but he stands and takes your hand. Yellow and blue light immediately dance across your skin. You grin.

“Awesome. Glad I found you.”

“Eightie,” he says, still grasping the light. The longer he connects with you, the longer he hears something so _sad_ that it’d make him cry if he were breathing. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t—I should have— _done something—”_

Your smile fades. “Ben? Is something wrong?”

You have such fine attunement to the silence that you can pick out his feelings within it. Ben has to laugh, but there is no humor.

“I wish I could tell you, as much as I don’t want to. I wish I could. I love you. And…and if I were here with you in life, I’d force you to accept that you need to be helped, too. It’s okay to want that. I’d help you, Eightie. I would. I’m sorry I can’t.”

After a moment of listening to the silence behind Ben’s words, you simply open your arms out. “Come here. Seems to me like someone needs a hug.”

Ben scoffs and rolls his eyes. You’re terrible.

But he never misses a chance to embrace the light that always shrouds you. It’s the closest thing he’ll get to actually hugging you. It’s the closest thing he’ll get to remembering what it’s like to touch. Light buzzes his form. The song he only hears from you, never from his siblings or anyone else, buzzes as well. Your arms close around until yellow suddenly radiates blue. You stop, knowing that it’s where Ben starts.

He holds onto the light, to you, to silence, to song, and it’s a while before he lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=c0c6-TX6RNyySAd5j_hE3g)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)
> 
> I know a lot of people have beef with Luther's character, but I always kind of felt bad for him. Reginald messed him up with the rest, and to make it worse, Luther still believed in and loved him. That left him with his own skewed sense of self.


	28. they say i'm a walking dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["The Walker"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0Nk7bSn0MItonkR0GNs3mj?si=UCw4MCOvS9WW942nTnWGSg)

“Diego?” you softly call next to the door. “Mom made breakfast.”

When there’s no answer, the snoopy sister side gets the best of you, and you open the door _just_ enough to peek in through the crack. You see two sleeping forms squeezed into Diego’s tiny twin bed, one of which has brown hair tumbling around her shoulders.

“Ooh,” you whisper. Part of you is tempted to scare them and have Diego scream at you to get out, but Patch has had a rough night, so you close the door again and tip-toe away.

You check your room before you leave to see if Five is still sleeping. He has a habit of dipping out at the worst time in spite of logic and common sense. But, to your relief, you see him still passed out in your bed with Delores sitting vigilant.

Vanya steps out of her room just as you’re closing the door to yours. “Good morning,” you smile.

“Morning.” Vanya’s hair is still damp from a shower. She had enough sense to grab spare clothes from the apartment last night. “How—how are you?”

“Better.” You lean against the wall and cross your arms. “You?”

“Fine.”

You lightly frown. “Vanya, it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

She sighs. “I—I shouldn’t have let him into my life that easily. It should have been clear what he intended to do.”

If anything, you want to say, it’s your fault for letting the creep be around Vanya as much as he did, considering you knew what he was up to. Now there’s a mess, and Vanya got hurt in all of it.

You want to have the conversation about the apocalypse and her role in it with her before one of the family members spill the truth. Although there will never be a right time for it, you can’t bring yourself to do it at the moment.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I guess it just shows…” Vanya stops herself and smiles, but it’s mirthless. “It just shows how weak I am when somebody is nice to me.”

“Hey, hey, stop,” you say with a point of your finger. “You shouldn’t have to guess a person’s motives. I _hate_ that this happened, Vanya, because you are just so kind and caring and—he _used_ it.”

You approach her and place both hands on each side of her arms. “You have to tell me you won’t blame yourself for this. Please.”

“How can I say that?” she asks somewhat breathlessly. “How can I think that?”

“Because it’s the _truth.”_

“He _hurt_ you, Eight.” Vanya shrugs away from you, and the act makes you flinch. “And honestly? I don’t understand why you’re acting like everything is _normal._ It isn’t. He—he _buried_ you alive. You almost died. How can you just not want to talk about that?”

“There’s not much to talk about.”

“That’s a lie. Just because you refuse to talk about it doesn’t mean it should be ignored.”

You freeze.

Vanya’s eyes widen a fraction. Guilt flashes across her, but it quickly sinks to resolve.

Ben, who has been watching the entire exchange, says, _“Thank you.”_

She wants to have the conversation about your attempt with you before one of the family members spill the truth. Although there will never be a right time for it, Vanya can’t bring herself to do it at the moment.

You sigh. Your hand ghosts to your abdomen.

“I’ll…talk about yesterday if you agree not to tear yourself apart over something that wasn’t your doing,” you concede.

“Really?” she half-scoffs.

“Really.”

Even though Vanya tosses her hands up in the air, she says, “Fine. It’s kind of impossible, but fine. I’ll try.”

“Thank you. And _you_ can still keep talking about it if you want. You know that, right? Just because I’m asking you doesn’t mean I want you to shut up.”

“I know. You’d pester me otherwise.”

“That’s what I do.”

When you smile, Vanya smiles back. You don’t like the sadness that lingers in her demeanor, but it’s less than before.

You then stick your lip out in a faux-pout and throw your arms wide. Vanya doesn’t try hard to resist the embrace, and she goes stiff like she usually does whenever you give her a bear hug. And, as usual, she lets out a little laugh before returning the hug.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I about lost my mind,” you say to her as you curl up with a mug of tea. Vanya sips hers while she listens on the couch. Several feet away, Klaus teaches Luther the “worldly trait” of knitting because, in Klaus’ words, Luther is “way more fun to be around when he’s day drunk.” Allison hangs out beside them and flips through an old teen magazine she found in her room.

You couldn’t bring yourself to get a buzz. Vanya had to deal with you the day after being a _tiny_ bit drunk. You woke up with a mild headache, which, of course, meant you were going to fucking die.

Luckily, you didn’t even _after_ you kept swearing you would during your total meltdown, and Vanya learned a great deal of patience that day.

“Well, yeah,” says Vanya. “You were stuck there and couldn’t do a single thing.”

“The pain was what made it unbearable. I wanted to die.” You take a sip of tea. “And even when I didn’t, I still wasn’t especially coherent.” You sigh. “Then I just had a bunch of depressing thoughts about being stuck there forever.”

Vanya’s brows furrow a little. “Like what kind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t remember much—I was all oxygen-deprived. Just…” A weight gathers in the back of your throat. You drink more tea to soothe it as well as gather yourself. “It was just, um, different being stuck with myself like that.”

“Different,” Vanya repeats. “Do you mean something else by that?”

“Uncomfortable. Disorienting. Terrifying.”

“But…you like the quiet, don’t you?”

Over the rim of your porcelain mug, you murmur, “I think that might be the problem.”

Vanya doesn’t answer and takes a slow drink of her own tea.

Perfectly timed, Five jumps into the space beside the chair you sit in. You lean back to get a better look at him, and you grin. “Well, hey, would you look at that? A whole…” You glance at the clock. “Three hours of sleep, and you’re a new person!”

“Clean, too,” Vanya adds with a smirk. Five dons a fresh academy uniform, and he looks like he’s showered and done his hair.

“Yeah, yeah,” he snips, then snatches up the mug from your hands.

“Wait, Five, that’s not—”

But Five is already downing a gulp of tea. Well, almost. It gets inside his mouth, but once he tastes what it actually is, revulsion widens his eyes. He spits the tea back into the mug. The both of you groan in disgust, but for different reasons.

“That’s fucking gross, Five,” you say with a deadpan glare.

“It’s not coffee,” he states, clacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get the taste out. He shoves the mug back into your hands. You helplessly gesture because what are you going to do now? Keep drinking it?

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Where’s Diego?” he asks. “We were going to interrogate Cha-Cha.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about her. Diego is—”

“Ready to rock, baby,” he calls, sauntering into the sitting room. “Let’s go, Five. Pogo showed me where the room is.”

“You’re looking… _refreshed,”_ you comment to Diego.

When you wag your brows along with the sentence, Diego sticks a hand out in front of him like he’s blocking your words from hitting his body.

“Not now, Eightie, we’ve got work to do.” Diego spins sharply on his heels, but there’s a dance to his shoulders. “Come on, Grandpa Five, let’s see what those assassins taught you.”

As he walks away with a beat in his step, Five remarks with scrunched brows, “What’s his deal?”

“Patch,” you simply answer. Five tosses his head back and lets out a short laugh.

“Right.” He then jumps to catch up with Diego, and the two head to the elevator.

You don’t even have time to gossip to Vanya what you saw in Diego’s bedroom before Pogo comes up to the both of you. “Miss Vanya, Miss Eight.”

“Good morning, Pogo,” you both chime.

“This may come abruptly, but with the resurfacing of your powers, Miss Vanya, I thought it might be beneficial to begin lessons on controlling them.”

“Oh.” Vanya sits upright. You set your tainted tea on the coffee table. “I, um, I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Pogo.”

You almost agree. Your brain goes: Vanya, powers, lessons, accidental loss of control, boom, apocalypse, death.

But wait. You’re being a little fatalistic. It could also go: Vanya, powers, lesson, learn control, harness powers properly, apocalypse avoided, happy dancing, smiley breakfast.

“You should try it out, Vanya,” you say, and you’re glad Five isn’t here to spark some debate that will just make everyone tired and worried.

“Vanya’s testing out her powers?” Klaus, who has selective acute eavesdropping abilities even from a great distance, perks his head up. “Really?”

“Is…that such a great idea?” Allison asks, setting the old magazine aside and giving you a wary look. “Not that I don’t support it, don’t get me wrong. But we’re in an enclosed space, and accidentally getting hit with Vanya’s powers will hurt.” Quickly, she adds, “No offense, sis.”

“None taken. Allison might be right, though. I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“We can begin in the courtyard,” says Pogo. “There is more room to practice and…less things to break.”

“Yeah, because _someone_ already popped Ben’s head off,” Klaus shoots at Luther.

“I like the look it gives me,” Ben says to him.

“I was thinking the same thing!”

“I’m sorry,” Luther says. “Ben, uh, sorry.”

“Tell him it’s okay.”

“Luther, Ben says he will never forgive you. You’re as dead to him as he is to the world.”

Klaus then hisses as his head snaps to the side. “Stop—doing— _that!”_ he yells, turning around to face empty air.

“We’ll work on Klaus’ powers, too,” you say to Pogo, who seems very interested in this new development. Funny how after Dad’s death, Klaus is finally coming into his own.

“We shall.”

“Are you guys sure about this?” Vanya questions hesitantly. “I…don’t want to have a repeat of last night. Or worse.”

Pogo gives her a kind smile. “Miss Vanya, you and your family are facing…incredible circumstances. And, by extension, incredible dangers. You will need to know how to use your powers to some degree. If not for yourself, then for the family you will be able to protect. It will also be better to have an idea of your abilities rather than finding out what they are at an inopportune time.”

Something changes in Vanya at the mention of protecting her family. She considers the offer, then nods once.

“Alright. I’ll give it a try. I, I want to start slow, though. Little.”

“Of course. We shall move a pace comfortable for you, Miss Vanya.”

If only Dad ever listened to Pogo when it came to caring. Maybe you wouldn’t all be so fucked up.

As Vanya follows Pogo to help him set up things in the courtyard, Allison comes beside you and says, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Not entirely,” you admit. “But all of us have basically consigned to not tell her about the apocalypse, so if you want to tell her the exact reason why she shouldn’t be messing around with her powers, then feel free.”

Allison sighs but doesn’t say anything. You go on.

“And besides, this will actually give her a chance to test out her powers in a controlled setting. Better she actually have a grasp of them instead of…accidentally blowing up.”

“Didn’t Five all find us dead in the remains of this house during the apocalypse?”

“I mean, yeah, but we technically have four days left before it’s supposed to happen. So it should be all good, right?”

“Wow,” she deadpans, “that makes me feel so much better.”

-

“I’m not in the business of beating former business associates,” Five says as he removes his blazer.

“Yeah, and I’m the goddamn Queen of England.”

“No, but you and Hazel did an amazing job staging Prince Albert’s murder. How long was that mission?”

“…Twenty-one days. Infiltration into the palace. Slow poison.”

Diego listens in the corner of the concrete cell, which has nothing in it except a hole in the ground. If Dad had been brutal to his kids, he doubts any enemies would get better treatment. Cha-Cha, for being stuck in here with nothing but a solitary lightbulb swinging above her that’s too high to reach, seems relatively good. Her black tie has been loosened, and it seems she made her suit jacket into a pillow overnight with the way it’s crumpled on the floor.

But her eyes are cold and murderous. Diego finds a knife in his hand—just in case.

“Are you comfortable, Cha-Cha?” Five asks, hands idly slipping into his pockets. “Do you need a chair to sit in? Some water? Food?”

She stays leaned up against the wall to keep what little distance she has between herself and Five. “Cut the shit, little man. Ask what you’re gonna ask, and we’ll see if I cooperate. But I’m not sitting down, and if you wouldn’t mind getting me a glass of water once you’re done, that’d be nice.”

“Alright.” Five tilts his head back a fraction. “Let’s start simple. Who were you ordered to kill?”

“You, first. Then that changed right after the junkie got away with the briefcase. Then it changed to the tank.” Cha-Cha scoffs. “I can’t _believe_ that bastard. Went and dug her up when everything had gone in our favor. For what? He’s just gonna get himself killed.”

“Crazy, I know, wanting a life outside of the Commission.” Five shrugs. “Hazel surprised me. I thought he was in it until the very end. Guess not. But you, Cha-Cha, I think you’re brainwashed _just enough_ to stay loyal. Just enough to have some sort of information that will be of interest to me.”

“What do you want me to say to you? We worked the same job, knew the same people, the same shit. I’m loyal, but I know the Commission is going down the shithole.” Cha-Cha nudges her foot to the latrine. “Kind of like that one.”

“How much do you know about the apocalypse?” Diego questions. Five shoots him a glare that hisses, _I’m the interrogator here,_ but Diego ignores it.

Cha-Cha even seems offended he talked. Sarcastically, she answers, “I don’t know _shit._ Don’t need to. It’s supposed to happen, so it will happen. No matter what little games you play scrambling around, it’s not going to work. But by all means, pretend as much as you want. You got four days to get it out of your system.”

“We’ll discuss the apocalypse later,” Five says with a pointed look to Diego. “How are things at the Commission? I’m not sure how much time passed between when I left and when you were given the hit job.”

“If you want to listen to someone bitch about work, then you should have Hazel in here, not me.”

“I’m not asking you to bitch. I just want to know, that’s all.”

Cha-Cha eyes Five, evaluating whether or not it poses an immediate risk to herself or her position. He waits with a placid smile. Eventually, she sighs irritably and shifts her position against the wall. “Don’t know how long you’ve been gone, but they cut our per diem. Dental. Medical coverage. The shitty motels got shittier to the point where partners had to share a room.”

“Huh. And who’s making these cuts? The Handler?”

“Carmichael, but the Handler isn’t doing a damn thing.”

Diego sees tension in Five’s shoulders at the mention of Carmichael. He heard of the Handler—she was the woman who plucked him from the apocalypse and oversaw the direct operations of time assassinations—but Five never mentioned the other person.

“Why the hell would Carmichael be involved in finances?”

A bite seeps into Five’s tone. Diego catches the subtle shifts that, left unmitigated, will become _unsubtle_ very quickly. That was how their fights always started when they were kids—a simmering snip from Five, a rebuke from Diego, then it built and built until one of them was on the ground or you wrenched them apart.

“You know him, always trying to get in good with the board, kissing their asses with his fish lips so he can be the top candidate for director with Bowmen retiring. When they need to make budget cuts, he happily decides for them.”

“At the expense of Commission employees,” Five finishes, voice tight. “And what does the Handler think of all this? She wants director’s spot, too. Pretty closing to grabbing it if I remember correctly.”

“They’ve always been at each other’s throats. Nothing different there.”

“Huh.”

Diego can’t see Five’s smile, but he _feels_ it permeate throughout the cell. Cha-Cha glares, unsure of what she’s given away and pissed he’s gotten something out of her, whatever it may be.

To himself, Five thinks he’s found something to actually work with.

-

Patch comes down the stairs in a perfectly-tailored blouse and skirt that Grace must have left right outside Diego’s old bedroom, along with clean socks and underwear. The outfit is a little too fifties housewife for her taste, but it will work until her actual clothes are washed.

The house feels…surreal. Her life feels surreal.

It doesn’t help that Klaus and Luther are in the sitting room apparently knitting. Klaus regales some sordid tale of partying and waking up in a dumpster while Luther listens instead of brushing his brother’s story off. Patch can’t ever tell when Klaus is being honest or exaggerating—he lives in a world of both, she’s found, when she spotted him in a holding cell or smoking a cigarette outside of some bar she’d been watching for work.

“You’re Diego’s girlfriend? _Paramour?”_ Klaus had dramatically asked with a cigarette between his fingers when they first officially met each other after he ran into Patch and Diego one night. He looked anxious to get away and anxious to cling to them. His flashy grin never matched his eyes. “Well, welcome to the family. Doubt you’ll be staying long—we’re all fucked up, you see, and fuck-ups like us don’t get to stay happy. We tend to ruin things.”

“Shut up, Klaus,” Diego had snapped. “Go to Eightie and Vanya’s place, okay? Eightie’s been asking about you, and it’s a real pain in the ass.”

“Roger that, Number Two.”

“Don’t call me Number Two.”

The simple scene before Patch tells her things are different, now. She almost smiles at the brothers having a moment—

Then Klaus sees her and beams. “Eudora!” he croons. “Good morning! Did you and my brother have a good bang session?”

The urge to smile vanishes, replaced with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=9fCPNsBPQ2u8Tl3ttvlHMw)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)


	29. it’s people like you, baby, going to rule mankind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Lost Woman"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0xpXLOs75M21CYFkrer5cG?si=6gFyPh3LSFWV40FIgGHH2w)

“Focus on the sound that emits from the glass, Miss Vanya.”

Pogo taps the tuning fork against the solitary glass on the stand in front of him. With the rainstorm passed, the day is actually sunny and moderately warm. You and Allison watch together from several feet away as Vanya stands in the courtyard, hands clenching and unclenching, concentration fixed on her face.

“Gotta admit,” Allison says to you, “I’m a little nervous.”

“Aren’t you an actress?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Then just…pretend like you aren’t.”

“Oh, wow, why didn’t I think of that before.”

“Just don’t act scared in front of her is what I’m saying. Be supportive. You can be nervous inwardly, but now isn’t the right time to have panic written all over your face.”

“We can’t all be cut from stone like you, Eightie.”

Allison immediately regrets her instinctive choice of words. You catch guilt flashing across her right after she speaks, and you frown. Before you can ask her what’s going on, Allison says, “Sorry. I’m just…well, Vanya’s powers kind of hurt. But you’re right. I need to show outward support.”

The conversation is unnervingly familiar to the one she had with you when Vanya first published her book. After Allison had finished her lengthy rant over the phone, there was a pause on the other end, and then you calmly said, “Allison, maybe instead of reacting, you should reflect.”

At first, she snorted. Leave it to you to drabble out some vague wisdom.

“Really,” she flatly said.

“Really. You’re lucky; Vanya laid bare everything she felt growing up. God knows the rest of us aren’t brave enough to do such a thing. Take what she’s written and ask yourself what you can do better to make up for those hurts. Listen to Vanya yourself—don’t just rage and ignore her and only make things worse.

“Just because things were bad doesn’t mean they have to stay that way. You have an opportunity. Don’t waste it.”

And, like all the times Allison couldn’t come up with a response to your annoyingly sage advice, she metaphorically spun around and walked away from you by hanging up the phone.

But, two weeks later, Allison found herself in Vanya’s living room, wanting to talk. _Listen,_ she had corrected. You were gone for some reason, so while it was harder to break the shells that surrounded both their hearts, it managed to happen, nonetheless.

“We can be concerned. But we can’t be fearful. It’ll only make Vanya believe Dad was right about her. Right to traumatize her. Traumatize _you,_ Allison.” The certain type of anger that surfaced whenever you talk about Dad curls your lip for a second. “We will never give him the satisfaction.”

“I always like it when you talk shit about Dad,” Allison can’t help but smirk. “It’s the only time I get to see you wear that badass vengeful bitch look.”

You put a heart to your chest. “Thank you. I don’t get called that enough. Being a perma-teen can be hard.”

“Yeah. Five isn’t have that great of a time with his own self, is he?”

“Five isn’t having a great time _in general._ But yes, it doesn’t help that he’s in a tiny body compacted with rage.”

Allison snorts. “I’m not sure if him being in an adult body and acting the way he does would have made me think more or less of him. So, in a way, I guess seeing him as I remember helps. I remember him being a pain in the ass, and guess what? He still is.”

“He just can’t say ‘I love you all.’ He knows.”

“Has he ever said that to any of us? I don’t think he said it to me.”

You hum. “He said it to me. Once. Right when I woke up from almost dying. But maybe it had just been a dream.”

Pulses emanate through the air, and you become excited for Vanya. It takes all you have in you not to cheer her on like you usually do whenever she finishes a complex piece on her violin. When the pulses fade abruptly and Vanya lets out a frustrated sigh, you _almost_ rush to her side to “punch away the baddies,” meaning you pretend to hit all of Vanya’s self-doubts and problems. It always makes her laugh because of your silly flailing, and it does help her feel a little better.

You don’t, however. She needs all the concentration she can get, and you might make her feel childish and weak by doing it.

Pogo taps the tuning fork against glass again. Vanya hooks into it, manipulating the simple sound waves into more power, because as long as there is a wave, there is energy—energy which can be manipulated. You don’t have to read Dad’s notes to know why that makes Vanya so impossibly powerful. She can just… _clap_ her hands together, maybe less, and create power that can constantly renew and amplify itself thanks to Vanya’s ability.

The pulses come more consistently, now. They don’t hurt, but they _are_ present. The hem of your pinafore dress sweeps in an artificial wind born from energy shifting through the air. Allison’s curls twirl behind her.

“Excellent, Miss Vanya,” Pogo commends over the noise from the steady energy waves. A particular one washes over you, and…you hear something. Warmth blooms in your chest. “Concentrate on cutting ties with the sound. Separate yourself from it.”

This next step takes a while, and you can see the struggle in Vanya’s tense body. You also feel Allison’s own anxiety start to bubble through her restrained exterior, but you keep your worry locked tight in your stomach. You have faith in Vanya. That will be enough.

The waves end. Whatever you think you hear is gone before you can believe it yourself.

Pogo smiles at Vanya, proud and sincere. “Very good. We shall repeat the process of extending your power outward at the same level you have used and bringing it in until you become comfortable with moving to greater output.”

Vanya is kind of lucky, you think. She gets to have Pogo as a teacher, not Dad. Your remember the days when you got to spend time with Pogo running tests and collecting data on your power. It wasn’t brutal, relentless training that left you hollowed out. Pogo made you and your family feel loved—as much as he could underneath Dad’s roof, at least. You don’t ask him, but you believe he feels some semblance of fulfillment despite what Dad originally made him complicit in. He stood by as Vanya’s entire personality was fabricated to hide her powers. Now, he gets to help her find them again. And, since she is no longer a small child who has no perception of her abilities, Vanya can differentiate from control and uncontrol.

You and Allison watch together for the next hour as your sister closes that gap between _extra_ and _ordinary._ Neither of you have it in your hearts to let the fear take hold.

-

“Um, I’m sorry, but I didn’t think that coming back here would mean I had to be subjected to _torment_ again.”

Klaus, as you expect, becomes instantly reactive when you bring up the notion of actually working on his powers.

He broadly gestures to Vanya. “And besides, there’s a bigger star in our midst now! You don’t need to, to focus on _me.”_

“Twice in the past few days, Ben has made physical contact with you,” you say. “It’s been from extreme rage, obviously, but you’ve also been sober in both incidents.”

“You talk like that’s a good thing! You don’t have to hear the _screams_ I do, Eightie!”

True fear creeps into Klaus’ voice. “What, you—you’re going to throw me into a mausoleum as well? Like Dad? Are you going to treat me like _Dad,_ Eightie?”

You flinch at the stab of pain from Klaus’ accusation, and then that pain reminds you the pain when you were buried, pain and pain and pain that you couldn’t do a single thing about, pain creeping up the back of your throat, burning and scraping—

Your face becomes carefully expressionless. Klaus slumps, suddenly guilty and ignoring pointed glares from Vanya, Allison, and Luther. Next to him, Ben sighs to signal his disapproval at the both of his siblings.

It’s not like you don’t notice their weird behavior whenever one of them says something snappy. They’ve never acted like this before. Why the change? Do they feel bad they couldn’t save you in time? Because it’s okay, it really is. You don’t hold any resentment. The fact that they _would_ have saved you if Hazel hadn’t come is all you need to know.

If it’s something else, then what?

Pogo, sensing the sudden change in the family, clears his throat and says, “Rather than focusing on your broader powers, Master Klaus, we would simply concentrate on your connection with Master Ben. You will not be forced to interact with any other spirits.”

“Come on, Klaus,” Ben pleads. “Do it for me. Please? I don’t ask for _anything—”_

“You _always_ ask for things!”

“Yeah, but do you listen?”

“Irrelevant.”

Ben takes a swipe at Klaus. It goes through. Klaus laughs.

 _“Please,_ Klaus. I don’t…” Ben exhales out of habit rather than actually breathing air. “If you help me out, I can…talk to Eightie. It’s the only thing I want to do.”

“Don’t make me feel _baaaad,_ Bennianne!”

“Klaus.”

The two stare at each other for a full five seconds to see who blinks first. Whoever blinks first wins the argument. Luckily, Ben is dead, so he doesn’t have to worry about his eyes dying out. Klaus puts up a good fight, but the moment he squeezes his eyes shut with a yell, Ben lets out a triumphant, _“Yes.”_

Klaus throws his hands up. “Alright! God, everybody wants _so much_ from me!”

But you smile again at his agreement, and Klaus feels that infuriating warmth inside him that just screams he’s made you proud. You smiled the exact same way whenever he went into rehab, thinking it would be the last time, and it never wavered when he destroyed your hopes.

Dad always told him he was a disappointment. Is it worse to be called that? Or is it worse to never be seen as one by somebody who loves him even when he believes it’s true?

Although selfishness has always been a cocoon to protect his justifications and habits and fears, Klaus can’t let you be the only one supporting this entire damn mess of a family anymore—himself included.

He stands, stretches, and wryly mutters to nobody, “Time to become a butterfly, I guess.”

Your smile breaks into a grin, and Klaus waves you off. “Stop, I’m still _bashful.”_

Ten minutes later, Five and Diego now sit among the gathered family in the sitting room. Mom hums and embroiders. Patch watches with some interest, and Diego watches with no interest because of the interesting woman beside him. You stand a few feet away from Klaus, who keeps fidgeting, and Ben, who crouches in a readied stance. You hold a basket of throwable things everybody scavenged around the house. Balled papers, pens, silverware, cups, expired nail polish, nail clippers, combs, and other mundane trinkets.

“Okay, ready?” you ask Klaus and Ben.

Klaus brings his fists together, and you refrain from gushing about how cool he looks right now. He doesn’t need his ego distracting him.

“Ready,” Klaus nods. “Come on, Benny boy, show them what we got.”

You pick up a spoon, then toss it into the air right in front of Klaus. Everyone braces themselves—

The spoon clatters to the ground. Klaus sighs in defeat.

“It’s no good!” he cries. “Well, that’s that—ow!”

He rubs the spot on his bare neck where the pen you threw clipped him. “Oops,” you say unapologetically.

Grumbling, Klaus concentrates again. You lob “prim plum” nail polish that Allison hadn’t used since 2003 to keep trying.

-

When Ben catches an old shotput from the 1948 London Summer Olympics for three seconds before it falls again, you all go into uproar.

Klaus allows himself a genuine smile. You lift him up into the air with one arm, and your other ripples blue. “I’m so proud of the both of you,” you say to them, and you want to explode from happiness. “My boys.”

Mom declares she will make a special meal tonight in celebration of her children’s successes, and all but one of you forget—just for a little while—that there is an apocalypse in less than four days.

-

Of course, Five doesn’t show up for dinner. It’s a shame, actually. For someone who bent time itself to get back to his family, Five sure makes a show of not caring about anyone. He’d already been purposefully distant from everyone as a real child because he thought himself superior. Forty-three years in complete and total isolation must have only exacerbated it, except now his distance is for another reason.

Sometimes, you don’t think he can fully submerse himself yet. It’s like…sensory overload, but with his little old heart instead.

You still come with a covered platter up to the upper laboratory you used to never be allowed into. The great whirring machine set up near the center turns the otherwise dark chamber an eerie pale blue. You walk near it, ignoring the high-pitched humming noise it emits until it becomes background silence.

Five can’t be bothered with finding a chair. He sits on the floor, back up against one of the desks with an endless assortment of devices and tubes and schematics on its surface.

“We missed you at dinner,” you simply say.

“Don’t lie.” Five doesn’t take his eyes off the machine. Spheres spin so fast around the bulk of the machine that they blur together.

“I’m not lying.”

You sit down beside him and slide the platter over. You take the metal lid off. Blue glints off the white of the plate his dinner is on. “I had Mom set aside some food for you. Sorry if it’s a little cold.”

“Thanks.”

Five picks up the fork and stares down at the meal. It’s tender roast with a side of veggies and mashed potatoes. A mini pitcher of gravy sits beside the plate.

He stares a little too long, blue eyes saturated in the light. You frown.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Five replies automatically. He blinks to bring himself out of whatever hole he had sunk under. “It’s just…we were eating this exact same meal when I first time traveled.”

“We were? Oh. I don’t remember.”

“I do.” Five grabs the knife and starts cutting into the roast. A lifetime ago, he had stabbed a knife into the table before getting into an argument with Dad. _The_ argument, where he ran out the door and you were left looking out at an empty sidewalk. “It was the last real food I ever ate. I should have eaten more. Got angry with myself about it during those nights when I was starving.”

“I’m sorry, Five.”

“Don’t be.” He pops a piece of meat into his mouth. In the blue, you watch Five’s eyes start to glisten the longer he chews. Your heart aches.

After he swallows, he sniffs and refuses to meet your gaze. “Damn teenage hormones,” he mutters before he keeps eating. “That’s all it is. So stop staring, freak.”

“Sorry.”

Five grumbles. “And don’t say sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Even _Five_ is tip-toeing around you? Shit.

You’ll corner him about it later. He seems to be…having a bit of a rough time right now. Like, he’s always having a rough time? But it comes off him in more prominent waves.

With a shrug, you say, “Alright.”

He scarfs down a few more bites while you observe the machine. It is a little hypnotizing, actually, with its steady pulses and hums and spins.

Then Five’s sigh draws you back to him. “I…didn’t want to snap at anybody at dinner. That’s why I wasn’t there. We have such _little_ time before the apocalypse happens, and to see everybody acting so carefree and secure just…”

“Made you want to tear your hair out?”

“Something like that.”

You lean against the desk and stretch your legs out. One crosses in front of the other. “I get it. Well. I think I can understand it. _Relaxation_ has been your antithesis for forty-three years. And now that it’s right in front of you, it feels wrong to take it.”

“Am I being ridiculous, though? The end of the world is at our doorstep, and everyone is—joking and eating dinner and throwing shit at Klaus and Ben. And apparently, Luther had _mimosas?”_

“That really does mark the end,” you concede with a smirk.

“You’re telling me.” Five pushes a divot into his mashed potatoes and pours gravy into it. He still eats them the same way; he takes a small portion of potatoes, dips them into the controlled pool of gravy, and works his way inward to have an equal balance of each.

“Thank you for not saying anything when we were practicing with Klaus and Ben, though. I appreciated it.”

Five scoffs. “You shouldn’t be _thanking_ me for not acting like an asshole.”

“It can be a real trial for you, so I thought I’d show my appreciation.”

When Five glances at you, he sees a smirk shining in the low light. He shakes his head and chuckles.

“Maybe if you practiced relaxing more,” you go on, “you wouldn’t be so quick to shift to assholery. You haven’t been able to relax for so long. Test it out. Not for a long time. Just for, like, fifteen minutes.”

“What’re you gonna make me do, yoga?”

“I mean, your body is all de-aged again. You could do yoga and not break a hip.”

“How do _you_ relax, Eight?” Five sarcastically questions through a mouthful of food.

“I just…” You slump to the side and lie on the floor. “Usually I have a television in front of me, though, and a blanket, and French fries. But Dad’s stupid time-assassin-deflection machine works, too. Or, I’ll just talk to Vanya or any of the others. So, like, we could just talk?”

“We always talk.”

“Usually, _relaxing talk_ doesn’t make any mention of the apocalypse, assassins, time travel, psycho boyfriends, or any other branching topics.”

“…Which is basically all our conversations have been about,” Five summarizes. You sit back up.

“Pretty much.”

“Honestly, I have no idea where to start on a conversation that doesn’t really go anywhere.” Five stabs at a roasted carrot and admits in a slightly quieter voice, “I’m not a kid anymore, and I was shit at it even then.”

“You weren’t that bad. You just have a different memory about it all.”

“Okay, oh _wise_ Eightie, let’s test out an _idle_ discussion.”

“Alright.” You tap your chin. “Hm. Oh. Oh. I got one. It _does_ involve your time at the Commission, but it shouldn’t be anything bad.”

“Go on.”

“What was _the_ best food you ever ate throughout all of time and history?”

Five pauses to consider the notion. “Are we talking breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack, or dessert?”

“Dessert.”

“Easy. I had the best goddamn key lime pie in St. Petersburg, Florida. 1955, I think? Creamy, cold, _just_ the right amount of crust. Not too crumbly, not too moist. There was fresh-grated lime on the top, and whatever limes they used in the pie were absolutely impeccable. To eat it on a hot evening in Florida made the experience even better.”

You smile and bring your knees up to your chin to press a cheek to them and listen to Five’s description of the key lime pie, enraptured by the details and the immediate ease in his demeanor.

With a smirk, Five confesses, “I had two slices just because it was so good.”

 _“Two?_ Five, I never thought you’d be so indulgent.”

“I know, I know,” he says, then takes a short pause to eat some more. When Five comes back up for air, he continues. “It wasn’t just the key lime pie that I remember being exquisite that evening. I ate it on a pier overlooking the ocean, and I got to watch the sun setting on the water.”

Five’s expression softens. “It was beautiful. One of those summer sunsets, where the sky was pale pink and purple and blue for a moment, then they just erupted into those deep colors that are almost too stunning to be real. I could smell the salt on the breeze, and the waves caught slivers of the light. I had the sunset and that key lime pie. It had been a…moment of calm in contrast to the violence of my occupation.”

You don’t speak and let Five’s memory continue to turn his gaze faraway. He smiles, but it’s somewhat sad. “The sunsets in the apocalypse were nothing but fiery at first. Radioactive. Saccharine. Colors of wasteland that reflected the wasteland of the Earth. I can still see those colors if I close my eyes. It took years for them to change. Then they returned to normal, and I realized I had never appreciated them once in my life. Sunsets were just something normal people appreciated, and I sure as hell wouldn’t consider myself normal.”

His brows furrow a fraction, and the weary age becomes clear on his youthful face. “But normal people had someone to appreciate sunsets with them. I was just…alone. And I realized that there was nothing more pathetic than someone who had to look at sunsets alone for the rest of their life.”

“It’s not pathetic,” you say just above a whisper.

Five doesn’t roll his eyes, but some doubt tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Depressing, then. I had Delores, but…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. A touch of wryness enters his tone. “I had no idea something as silly as a sunset would make me so lonely. But just about everything did, so it’s not all that special.”

You don’t point out that this is the first real time Five has ever spoken about the crippling loneliness of the apocalypse. If you did point it out, he’d clam up and purposefully never talk about it again. You’d die if you set him back further than he already is.

Instead, you lean over and put your head on his shoulder. “I suppose there’s nothing else we can do but watch a sunset once this is all over, then.”

“Sure.”

It’s a small victory to hear reluctant fondness in Five, the same reluctant fondness you’d been hearing since you were a child.

“Now,” you say while you stare at the machine, whose light no longer feels eerie, “the best dessert I had was this lava cake at Applebee’s.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“No, no, I’m serious. Just listen.”

“…Fine. But you had _better_ make this good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=zwgA-StDQXSrdlOSXdvwVw)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)
> 
> I'm going to take a tiny break from updating daily to get the last of my outline in order. There are technically only three days left until the apocalypse is supposed to happen, so you know shit is going to go down. Then, I'll hopefully write all the chapters left and be able to go back to daily posts. I've been able to post so frequently because of the chapters I've finished ahead of time, and I want to try and keep it up. I'll be back soon!
> 
> And thank you to everyone who leave comments on each of the chapters. You don't have to, but you do anyway, and it really makes me so freaking ecstatic whenever I get that email notification saying somebody has left a comment on this fic. You're all amazing, and I hope I can meet your expectations as this story draws near a close.


	30. study your face and fade the frame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["(Feels Like) Heaven"](https://open.spotify.com/track/3bkcq1VrFlcoqa04VBs4J8?si=Evva5FSyT-GaOCdLpba8Yg)

Life feels odd with three days until the apocalypse looming in the back of your mind. Three days to elevate Vanya to the point where she won’t lose control. Three days to do something about the Commission. Three days to prevent the end.

Your grip remains steady as you bring Cha-Cha breakfast.

Mom made a nice spread for your technical prisoner. Three pancakes with a side of berries, syrup and butter, three slices of bacon, two fried eggs, and a glass of orange juice. There’s also an extra glass of water. You crouch and slide the tray through the slat you opened on your side. “Good morning,” you chime.

“Fuck off,” Cha-Cha snaps while she draws the tray to her. You lie flat on your back so you can stare at her in the slat’s space. When she catches you, she sneers and says, “Why’re you being so creepy?”

“Just making sure you eat enough. Also, I don’t have much else to do until you finish. I need to take the tray back, and I’m sure you could kill with a spoon and a piece of bacon, so I can’t let it stay here in the cell.”

“Why don’t you just kill me?” Cha-Cha poses while she shovels pancake into her mouth. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about mealtime shit.”

“I mean, we don’t really want to murder more people than we have to.” You clasp both hands over your stomach.

“But Five is a killer,” Cha-Cha says. “All of you are. Killers since you were kids. Killers now.”

You think of the euphoria of crushing Leonard Peabody’s windpipe, of the manic grin Five wore when he killed, of the grim satisfaction Diego had when his knives connected with a body.

“Well, if you want to die so badly, we can make arrangements.”

Cha-Cha snorts. She swipes the back of a hand over her mouth after swallowing some orange juice. “I have no more information to give that’s relevant to your stupid little dream of saving the world. All roads point to me being offed before I find a way to escape and kill all of you. It’s only logical.”

“If we were the Commission, maybe, but guess what?” Your shoulders wiggle against the ground in a small dance. “We’re not.”

“So, what? You’re just going to keep me here until you all die?”

 _“Or_ we stop the apocalypse and get the Commission to stop bothering us,” you add with a smile. Cha-Cha would have seen it as childish if she didn’t know who you really are and your true age.

“Yeah,” she drawls, unconvinced. “Or that.”

“Pretty much,” you nod.

Cha-Cha doesn’t believe a word coming out of your mouth, but it doesn’t stop her from eating because damn, she hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in forever. Her diet is a consistent stream of overpriced junk and cheap coffee, and don’t even ask her when was the last time she had fresh fruit.

You watch Cha-Cha scarf down the breakfast without interruption. It seems to be an actual experience for her, and with the way Five talked about food last night, you figure she might be going through something similar.

After she’s done and organizes everything back on the tray, Cha-Cha sighs like she disappoints herself. She reaches over to her crumpled blazer, then pulls out a small photo from one of the inner pockets. She sets it on the tray and pushes it out through the slat. You sit up to see what she placed.

“I don’t have a use for some stupid picture anymore,” Cha-Cha explains with boredom. “Figured you might want to know what he looked like.”

You study the single photo. It’s a simple picture of an old man with a cold, serious face. You recognize those eyes instantly. This is a man who had been drug straight into hell and climbed his way back out for his family. It had always been for his family. Everything. Everything he ever did was for all of you.

“Five,” you whisper.

Cha-Cha doesn’t get the fondness in your voice. It’s just a dumb picture. But your reaction stirs memories of a past life where something like that once existed in her.

She doesn’t get _you._ Why be nice to a person who has tried to kill you and your family on multiple occasions?

“Thank you,” you say to her. “Really. Thank you.”

With an eye roll, Cha-Cha mutters, “It’s nothing. I would have thrown it away if I remembered I had it before now.”

“Then I’m glad you didn’t remember.” You smile at the picture and tuck it into the pocket of your pinafore dress. Moving the tray aside, you resume your position lying flat to see Cha-Cha once again. She rests against the wall, head tilted back and an arm propped up on her bent knee.

“Hey, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Not answering.”

“What was Five like working for the Commission?”

Cha-Cha opens an eye to glare at you through the slat. “Come on,” you prod. “It won’t hurt you just to give a little description. And besides, talking will keep you from going crazy in this cell.”

“This _family_ has already made me crazy.”

“Yeah, yeah, they make me crazy, too. We all have a special habit of it.”

You lace both hands behind your head to cushion it. “So, what was he like?”

Although Cha-Cha glares some more, she eventually gives in with an annoyed breath. She rationalizes that she’s got nothing better to do, and it’ll give her a chance to possibly hurt you by detailing Five’s life at the Commission.

“I never interacted with Five a lot—none of the field agents did. He took on that loner persona to a point where it was ridiculously dramatic. Any attempt to partner him up with someone else was shot down before it could even get off the ground.”

“Mm. That sounds like him.”

 _“Everyone_ at the Commission knew he was an asshole, even for a field agent, and we’re not the nicest bunch. But he became one of the best agents they’d ever seen, so he got away with being a shitty person. The man executed the most brutal, efficient missions to date. He set the record for most kills in the agency’s history. And we’re not talking just regular kills. Creative ones. Violent. The Handler told us to take _inspiration_ from how he did his job. Those who did either died or came back covered in more blood than they ever had before.”

Cha-Cha waits to see you grimace or flinch at the information. But you just stare at her expectantly. She refrains from sneering.

“The Handler,” you repeat. “Five has mentioned her. She was the one who brought him out from the apocalypse. Did she oversee him?”

“She oversaw everyone in a broad sense, being a Commission supervisor and all. But he wasn’t specifically assigned to her like Hazel and I were. The Handler just took a _special_ interest in him.”

Your brow raises at the connotation. “What kind of special?”

Shrugging, Cha-Cha says, “She personally selected him for recruitment. But…” Cha-Cha’s nose wrinkles. “She was always so _touchy_ with him, too. She wasn’t like that with any other agents. It always raised eyebrows around the building, but Five never seemed impressed or affected by it. I think the Handler liked doing it just to see if she could irritate him.”

You don’t particularly like that piece of information, but you go on.

“If the Handler didn’t supervise Five, then who did?”

“No idea. Never concerned me, and Five came into the Commission trained well enough for combat that he didn’t need much initiation.”

You exhale, then sit back up. Cha-Cha catches a glimpse at your knee-high socks. “Okay. Thanks again for the picture. I’ll be down with lunch later on today. I’d offer you a book or a blanket or something to make you a little more comfortable, but, well, I’m sure you’d just figure out a way to either kill with them or escape.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Yeah. What else did it sound like?”

You stand with the tray in tow. Your foot goes to push the slat shut, but it pauses, and you say, “Oh, and…I know this will just make you angry, but Hazel wanted me to tell you that he was sorry.”

Cha-Cha grits her teeth together and stays silent. The slat closes. She is alone again.

It’s only some time after you leave, however, that Cha-Cha realizes why Five had the reaction he did when she mentioned Carmichael. Of course. She’s so stupid for not seeing it before.

Not like she’s going to tell you, but still. It is information she can hold onto for something in the future. But shit, she can’t do a damn thing right now except dream about all the ways she’s going to kill Hazel once she gets out of here. _Sorry,_ her ass. He’ll be the one who’s sorry by the end of all this.

-

Luther holds you on his shoulder while he keeps Ben’s statue in place. You make sure the head is secure, then you start winding duct tape around the clean break.

“It’s a little crooked,” Klaus comments while he idly smokes a cigarette. In the background, Pogo and Vanya practice control over her powers, and Five will occasionally put out advice like the (now older) brother he is. As someone who has to harness abilities to a specific degree, he’s able to provide input better than the rest of you. You just hope Five is at least trying to be nice.

“Well, then Ben will just be looking at something interesting,” you say back while you make sure the duct tape does its job of keeping Ben’s head attached to his statue body. It’s going to be a while before somebody can come and fix it properly, but you got tired of seeing your poor brother’s statue toppled over. Luther offered to help repair it, and even though the duct tape strapping down both his feet to the pedestal won’t do much, so far, it sticks.

“Remember that villain we fought when we were, like, twelve?” Ben asks Klaus as he idly watches you and Luther make repairs. “And he had attached his head onto, like, a pro wrester’s body? And it looked really weird but kind of funny?”

“So, you’re saying you kind of look like Professor Crania Mania?”

“Mm, I _don’t_ think that was his name, but yes.”

“No, no, you’re right, you do.”

“Surgeon Skull,” Luther says, overhearing Klaus’ one-sided conversation with Ben. “That was his name.”

“Ugh,” Klaus grimaces, “even worse. How did we even take him down? I don’t remember.”

“That’s because you hung outside of the doors to his main laboratory and played that Gameboy you stole,” Luther replies. You chuckle. “And the Horror ripped his head off initially, but the head just grew little mechanical limbs and scurried away while we had to keep fighting the body, which was _not_ dead. Allison, Diego, and Five went after the head before it could launch that missile containing the neural agent that’d wipe out nearly all of San Francisco. Eightie, Ben, and I handled the body.”

You remember what happened as soon as Luther recalls it, but you don’t think you could provide the same amount of details like he can.

“I got pile-drived,” you say. “Or is it pile-driven? Either way, I’ve never had my neck popped like that before when I was slammed into the ground. I still like to remember what that bliss felt like. Oh—which reminds me, Luther, could you try and pop my back?”

“Sure.”

You pack down the duct tape around Ben’s neck for good measure, then pat his head. “Alright, Ben 2.0 looks good.”

Luther sets you on your feet. You stretch, preparing yourself to have your back popped by your brother, when the sound of sirens split the air. You don’t notice them at first, but you should have. The sudden disruption of the noise Vanya works with also disrupts her own powers, which rips away her control over her sound manipulation.

Five’s voice cries out, “Vanya, you’re using too much!”

Warmth springs up in your chest, up the back of your throat, and you can taste something sweet, something bitter, something you had not tasted since you were young and Ben had not died and Five had not disappeared and you had some semblance of an innocence in your heart.

Worry wrenches your stomach in fierce contrast. Several yards away, Vanya’s chest and fists pulsate blue, but unlike all the other times she’s practiced, these pulses come out in sharp succession, and her face twists like she can’t bring it back in as easily as she is supposed to. Five brings his own hand up in surprise, taking in the way his powers spring to life in erratic fashion, distorted and sparking.

You rush forward, exclaiming, “Vanya! Just breathe, just—”

Her eyes flash open with a gasp, and you stare at the haunting change. Instead of the kind chocolate brown she’s possessed her whole life, Vanya’s irises are now a stark pale blue, darting wildly about in fear, and her skin has become porcelain in color.

Wind whips at your clothes and hair. You ignore the noise that rings in your skull; it’s dulled, anyway, which isn’t how it should be, considering how Five stumbles away covering his ears and Pogo backtracks while he clutches his head.

The warmth grows, spreading out to your limbs, and light erupts all over your body.

You don’t know what else to do except reach out to Vanya. Without hesitating, she reaches back—

As soon as your fingers graze against hers, the pulses solidify into one final _push._

Time slows in an odd, hypnotic way.

You don’t notice yourself sailing backward through the air. You don’t notice how _hot_ your body has become. You don’t notice how the light closest to your skin turns blue before it gradients back into yellow. You don’t notice yourself sliding across the damp earth of the courtyard and coming to a stop. You don’t notice how stormy clouds have blotted out what was a sunny sky only seconds ago.

You only notice the, the, the

_Song._

It leaves you breathless, thoughtless, with an ache in your heart like it is sore from being stretched after such long disuse. Not exactly pain, not exactly comfort, not exactly anything but _shock._

You’re relieved when it fades and leaves you to the silence in your system once again. The world is sharper, now. Like something gradually eroding, you never noticed the difference until it flooded your senses for an eternal instant.

The light, a solid yellow glow, won’t shake from your body, and it’s all the more noticeable with the cloudy sky. Rain droplets refract with color moments before hitting your skin.

Clumps of earth stick to your neck and back as you sit up. Taking in your surroundings, you see that, fortunately, you were the one who took the brunt of the hit. Everyone else managed to get out of damage range before Vanya blew. Luther, bless his heart, had clung onto Ben’s statue to prevent it from toppling back over after the two of you put in the work to get it fixed again.

Something wet trickles from your nostril. You touch the spot and it comes away red.

“Eightie…”

Luther, the one closest to you, stares wide-eyed at the blood. Everything inside you is a touch too warm, and you think about Dad’s theory. Panic wants to rush up and make you crumble, but you clamp down on it like a bird of prey unwilling to let a fish wriggle out from its talons. You will _not_ make this about you and cause everyone more worry.

You lift the front of your dark pinafore dress to wipe the blood away so nobody will be able to distinguish it from the fabric. Once it’s gone and you’re sure you won’t keep bleeding, you look back to Luther and put a single finger to your lips. He doesn’t nod, but neither does he make your predicament known, so you have to trust him.

Then you stagger to your feet and make your way back to Vanya, who slumps on her knees. Allison follows your lead, as does Klaus (although much more hesitantly) and Pogo. Diego and Patch rush into the courtyard. “What the hell was that?” Diego questions, but one look from Vanya, the rest of you, and the strewn leaves that had blown outward from Vanya’s power surge answer it for him.

Inside the house, there is a cracking explosion, followed by distorted whirring noises.

“Shit,” Five snarls. “Dad’s machine! Diego, Patch, meet me up there!”

He jumps and disappears. The two he called upon also rush back inside to put out whatever fires may have started.

Vanya’s eye color has returned to normal. You crouch beside her.

“I’m…sorry,” she chokes out. “I—I had it all under control! Then, then those sirens threw me off. I should have b-been able to control it, though, and I’m _so sorry.”_

“It’s okay,” you say with a small chuckle. “It happens. Did you think it would always go smoothly?”

“…I mean, I _wanted_ it to,” Vanya meekly confesses. You tuck her brown hair behind her ear, and you hope nobody notices the dried blood still engrained on your finger because you forgot to wipe it away when it was wet. “I don’t know, maybe I should just give it up. Go back to being on my meds. It’s safer for everyone that way.”

You pause for a moment to gather your thoughts. Then you say, “That’s ultimately up to you, Vanya, and we’ll respect whatever choice you make. But I hope you know that we’ll always be beside you no matter what may happen. We believe in you, too. Always.”

“Yeah,” Allison says, crouching beside you and Vanya. “And you know what? It took a long time for us to become good at using our powers and learn how to fight well.”

“I never got good!” Klaus chimes in with a laugh and a stream of cigarette smoke. “But you’re much more dedicated than me, so you’ll do great.”

“Control doesn’t just happen in one day,” you say. Allison nods in agreement. “There will be setbacks. We’re more prepared for them, though, so don’t…don’t get disheartened, alright?”

Vanya nods through bleary vision. You help her stand. Rain dampens your clothes. Klaus flicks his cigarette on the ground and grinds it with his heel. “Klaus,” Ben says, “Klaus, Eightie was bleeding.”

“Quoi?”

The two brothers watch you and Allison guide Vanya back inside, careful not to treat her like a child but enough to show care toward her.

“She was _bleeding_ out of her nose. Right after she got hit with Vanya’s power.”

“You’re being silly, Benny boy. Are you sure her powers didn’t do something to _you?”_

“Why would I lie, huh? I know what I saw!”

At Ben’s raised voice, Klaus throws both hands up placatingly. “Alright, alright, yeesh, don’t get all crazy. Here, I’ll just ask her.”

“I don’t think—”

“Hey, Eightie,” Klaus calls ahead. You glance back at him. “Ben said you got a nosebleed after Vanya’s little _surge._ That true?”

You pull your brows together and tilt your head. All eyes are on you, and you can feel fear radiating off Vanya. If she had _hurt_ you…

“I don’t think so,” you reply. “Why would I bleed?”

Klaus gestures a hand out to you and looks at Ben. “See?”

You head into the house with Allison and Vanya. Ben’s heart breaks into jagged pieces of sadness and anger.

“She’s lying,” he says darkly. “She’s lying, Klaus.”

“Why would she lie?”

“Because it’s Eight,” Luther says. His sudden presence causes Klaus to jump.

 _“Luther,_ don’t scare me like that! Jeez.”

“Sorry.”

Pogo’s and Luther’s grave expressions kill whatever joke was forming in Klaus’ mouth.

“Miss Vanya’s power output should have been far greater than it was,” Pogo says. “All of us should have been more severely impacted by it as well. But your father had many theories regarding Miss Vanya and Miss Eight’s power relationship since even before the incident regarding Miss Eight’s near-death experience. They have more of a…connection than with the rest of you children.”

“What does that mean?” Luther asks.

“It means we were spared from the brunt of Miss Vanya’s powers for a reason,” Pogo replies.

The three brothers manage to draw a conclusion without having it explicitly stated. Cold dread comes shortly after.

Klaus drags both hands down his face. “I can’t keep up with all this _shit!”_

_-_

“Well, I mean, Five, it was bound to happen.”

“But it wasn’t bound to happen _this soon.”_

He swallows the rising bite in his voice. You’re not sure why he does it except to spare you from its sting, so your suspicion grows.

“How long do we have left before it completely shits the bed?”

“A couple hours if we’re lucky. Knowing this family, though, luck isn’t on our side all that often.”

You hum to agree. Vanya’s powers were strong enough to disrupt the cloaking machine that’s kept you protected from the Commission. Five was able to restabilize it, but even his genius couldn’t repair it completely.

“Guess we’d better round everyone up and figure out what to do next,” you say. “I’m sure you have a few ideas on it.”

Five shoots you a smirk. “I do. Fortunately, someone in this family thinks ahead for situations like these.”

“And that person is you, yeah, I get it,” you say with an eye roll. “You know, most people try not to be smug. How come you don’t?”

“Because I know my own intelligence.”

“Now that’s just bragging.”

“Call it what you want—”

“Bragging, that’s what I’ll call it—”

“But I think I’ve hobbled something together that gives us a _small_ chance of making it through the apocalypse and dealing with the Commission at the same time.”

“Good for you. Oh…and _speaking_ of the Commission…”

You reach into the pocket of your dress and pull out a photo. You and Five sit together on your childhood bed, which only enhances the comedy of how you’re both dressed in academy uniforms, looking the same as you did when you were young. The only notable difference is in your gazes.

Five takes the photo with a wry smile. “Where’d you get this?”

“Cha-Cha had it.”

“And she gave it to you? That’s unnaturally kind of her. You sure it doesn’t have poison on it?”

“It could. Doubt it, though.”

He raises the photo up to better inspect it in the light breaking through the clouds and casting down into your window. “Well, would you look at that stranger,” he remarks.

“I like how you grew a proper little mustache,” you grin, holding a finger right under your nose.

“Yeah, well, I kinda had to as a type of compensation. Did you know I was balding, Eight? Balding. A mustache and a good hat like this one at least provided some distraction from it.”

You laugh, and Five grins. “Some old man I was,” he says. When he sighs, the smile fades. He glances down at his free hand and splays his fingers. “It’s still strange to me, comprehending that these are my hands again. That this twiggy little body is mine again.”

Five speaks with resigned bitterness. “When I look in the mirror, _I’m_ the stranger. Not this geezer in this picture.”

He hands the photo back to you.

After a short silence but before Five can stew too hard over his words, get embarrassed, and leave, you say, “I…I’ve only ever been in this body, but it can be tough when people look at me because they don’t see who I actually am since I don’t reflect my age. I don’t want to be asked why I’m not in school while I’m grocery shopping. And the DMV is a _nightmare,_ Five. A literal nightmare.”

You hide away your small victory when Five chuckles.

“A regular adult life comes with too many issues with me looking like I do, so I have no choice but to live a life where I miss out on things only adults experience. I can’t even…live on my own because there would be too many questions and problems regarding my appearance, no matter how much paperwork and proof I have.”

Five thinks of the words he spoke to Vanya out in that cold, drenched field, and it twists his gut. He accused her of keeping you chained to her, but he never once thought about the restrictions you have to navigate looking the way you do. It’s another regret added to the pile, which climbs so high in Five’s mind that he can’t touch one without fearing he’ll bring the entire thing down on top of him and be crushed under its weight.

You suddenly snort when a specific memory comes to you. Shifting to Five, you smirk as you say, “You want to hear something pathetic?”

“Always.”

“A long time ago, Allison set me up on a date with a guy she had met in LA. He was in town the same time she was, so she thought it’d be a good idea to help boost my confidence by putting us together. I was…what, nineteen? Yeah, I was, because that was his age, too. I didn’t think I could pull off looking nineteen, but Allison _assured_ me I would be fine, that this guy was nice, all that shit.”

Five’s growing smile comes with a wince, which shows how he’s bracing himself for what comes next.

“The date went well at first. I think. I had literally had _no_ reference level when it came to dating, and guess what? Still don’t. I just read what a good or bad or boring date was like. Anyway, after a nice little dinner and an outdoor concert, he took me aside and I thought, ‘Oh, shit, he’s gonna make a move.’”

“Of course.”

“Of course, right? I was _really_ excited, and I don’t wanna paint a picture of me standing on my tippy-toes and pushing my lips together for a kiss, but honestly, that’s how I probably looked. Then this guy said…” You lower your voice and change your position so it slouches more. “ ‘Hey, so, um, this is pretty weird for me. I don’t want to look like some pervert for hanging around with a fifteen-year-old—and I know you’re as old as me, but I can’t explain that to everyone I meet. So…later.’”

You hold out your fist to bump, and you switch back to yourself to sigh and bump the fist back. Five groans with a laugh.

“He _fist bumped_ you? And you let him?”

“What else was I supposed to do? Really, I was mad that he called me a fifteen-year-old; I look _sixteen,_ thank you very much.”

“What an asshole.”

“That’s what Allison called him when I went back to her hotel room and told her and Vanya all about it. Then we ordered a buttload of ice cream and junk food from room service, and that made me feel better. But…” You lean back. “That was the first and last date I ever went on. I can’t go on dates with teenagers because, ew, and I can’t go on dates with older guys who are interested in me for looking young because they’re the same kind of guys Diego and I beat up on the regular.”

Five has the decency to wince in sympathy, but it’s done in good humor. You shrug. “So, welcome to this new world, Five.”

Offhandedly, he says, “Well, at least you’re not alone with this particular shitty problem, anymore.”

You smile. As much as your heart aches for Five and his predicament, you don’t deny how you like the thought of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=Bu8OL9u4S9STVwq4dLfA5Q)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)
> 
> Okay, I'm still finishing up the rest of the outline, and I haven't written much else beyond this chapter, but I thought I'd give you all something to tide you over for a bit. Life is going to start getting very busy for me starting next week, so writing chapters will be slower than it has been when I first started writing this fic.
> 
> And I feel like I mislead a lot of you when I made this a series. I plan on concluding this fic while it's technically in its "first season," so I won't be arcing into the second season. _That being said,_ I will have some one-shot chapters from s2 moments for some "What if Eight was there?" scenarios. Tiki lounge with Reginald Hargreeves, anyone? The one-shots will incorporate elements, characterization, and revelations from this first installment, too, so if you read it, keep that in mind. Then, for those of you who read this as a romance, I'll also have a separate installment of one-shots involving Five and Eight's lives (as well as their family's lives) after the ending of this first fic. 
> 
> Stay safe everyone, and thank you for supporting this work 💖


	31. tryin to get away into the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["I Think We're Alone Now"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4uvjOKsp7mSjrDhWdkLPBY?si=ytGoVqSNRrK4Q6UnU7-vdw)

You don’t think your family has ever wound up in the sitting room all together as much as you have in the past few days. It’s not the worst, but it _does_ remind you of the impending problems that are closing around your throat.

Luther and Klaus _won’t_ stop looking at you, and you’re sure it’s because of the teensy bloody nose you got after Vanya’s power surge. _Ben._ Always ratting on you. You’d glare at him, but you’re not sure where he’s at, so you’ll save it for the right moment.

Once Pogo sits down and Diego guides Mom beside him and Patch, Five stands, hands in his pockets, expression grim—but not hopelessly grim. That’s a good sign.

“The temporal distortion machine was never a long-term safety measure,” he says. “And, fortunately, it gave me enough time to come up with a plan that just _might_ work.”

“Well, what is it?” asks Luther.

“With the Commission out of the way,” Five rationalizes, “then we won’t have to worry about them trying to kickstart the end of the world.”

 _Nobody_ has told Vanya she causes the end of the world. You hate this ugly but understandable secret you’ve all kept from her. You can see how it might make things worse, but you see how hiding the truth has its merits. If Vanya doesn’t expect herself to cause the end of the world, then she won’t have that insurmountable pressure on her soul and ultimately blow up because of it. On the other hand, _maybe_ telling her that the Commission intends for her to end the world will help keep her powers under control due to what’s at stake.

You’re at a loss, and so is your family. In true Hargreeves fashion, you all fall into the habit of believing that if you don’t say something out loud, it technically isn’t a problem.

“We can’t take on the entire Commission,” Five goes on, “especially on their home turf, but I _can_ infiltrate and do some subterfuge. Sabotage. Destroy them from within.”

Wait. You notice the change from plural to singular pronouns in regard to the family. “Hey, hey,” you interrupt, earning a half-scowl from Five because he didn’t want to be caught this early. “Um, why did you just switch to talking like _you’re_ going to be the one doing this alone?”

Five grimaces resignedly.

“Because that’s his little plan,” Diego says. “Go in solo since the family is too much of an effort to incorporate.”

“That’s—” Five pulls his sneer back before he can fully lash out at Diego’s interpretation of the dilemma. “That’s not the _exact_ reason.” He points a finger in no particular direction. “As much as this family could cause complete and utter _chaos_ at the Commission, we can’t all be there. It’d be too much danger—not to mention suspicious. It’d never work. If I go alone, however, then it’s a more believable setup.”

The moment Five takes a breath, the rest of you jump in to argue with him, voices overlapping to point out all the reasons why this is a bad idea.

In return to your dissents, he gives you all a heart-stopping glower. “Let me _finish_ explaining.” As an afterthought, Five tacks on, “Please,” at the end of his sentence.

He gets an array of glowers in return, but he’s allowed to continue.

“Alright. Thank you. As I was saying.” Five straightens his tie. “Cha-Cha is going to be the key to contacting the Commission. She’ll inform them that I want to make a deal in exchange for my family’s safety because I know we can’t outrun the Commission forever. Let me make it clear that I still _would_ be betrayed even if my intentions were true. Nobody breaks their contract and gets away with it. But I’d at least have _some_ security for a while before it all went to shit. So. I’m going to use that time to my advantage.

“This will get the Handler’s attention. Everything she’s been overseeing has turned into a complete mess, so she’s going to jump on an opportunity to clean it up, save face, and come out with some of her dignity intact. I’ll meet her at a specified location with Cha-Cha. She’ll be the peace offering. The Handler, of course, will want to shoot her point-blank, but _I’ll_ say that the deal is off if Cha-Cha dies.”

Five’s finger, still pointed, focuses in on you. “And I’m doing it _only_ because I know you’re about to make me promise to keep her alive.”

It’s true. Your mouth is already open to make the statement. You settle for a single nod. Five snorts.

“Honestly, I couldn’t care less about what happens to Cha-Cha. I don’t want her complicating things down the road. But, to get back on track, I’m sure Cha-Cha will happily put the blame of her missing briefcase on Hazel, a rogue agent. We’ll feed the Handler the story that she tried to stop him, but she got caught up in the family, which was how she was captured. An easy enough lie because in a sense because it’s mostly the truth.”

You tap your chin. “Hm. That does sound pretty believable. But, to make sure everything goes according to plan _and_ you uphold your promise, I’m coming with you.”

Five bristles. “No, Eightie,” he scowls. “You are _not.”_

“Yeah,” Allison says with a glance toward Five, “I’m not sure I want you to be separated from the rest of us. It’s…it could get dangerous.”

“Everything about this situation is dangerous,” you reply. “And Five is trying to take on a whole lot of responsibility for his entire family because he’s arrogant—and desperate—enough to attempt to do it on his own.” Your gaze settles back on Five. It is as unyielding as his. “And if I go with you, it will make the offer more credible.”

You lean forward to put in your own amendment to Five’s ultimately suicidal, blow-up-in-his-face plan. “I want to join the Commission to keep my family safe as well. It is, after all, my main motivator in life, so it makes sense. _And_ because I don’t trust you from going completely off the rails the moment you get there—both as a façade and in real life—I’ll be with you as a…cooling agent. Something like that.”

He squints at you. _“A_ _cooling agent?_ What do I look like, some overheated radiator?”

“I mean, sometimes,” you answer with a lopsided smile.

“Eightie has a point,” Diego says, and you air high-five him. “As much of a mastermind as you are, Five, you have a tiny character flaw called crippling hubris and overwhelming ego. She’ll balance you out while making the whole thing believable.”

“And what, I’m not believable enough on my own?” Five scoffs.

You all hem and haw in response. He rolls his eyes.

 _“Fine.”_ To you, Five says, “But I’m the one in charge. Don’t forget that. We go by my plan.”

“Sure, we’ll go by your plan.” After a beat, you add, “Unless I see that it can be improved, in which case then we’ll go by _my_ plan.”

Five’s replying glare only makes you laugh. “Come on, Five, it’s called _adapting._ Stop being so sour over it. We have to work _together_ on this, which means at some point, you may have to listen to what I say.”

“Don’t ask the impossible of him, Eightie,” Klaus groans. “It’s too much for his little head! Look, it’s gonna pop right off!”

“Shut _up,_ Klaus,” Five bites. Klaus only gestures like the point has been proven further. Five then sighs and rolls his shoulders like it physically pains him to let this new reality sink in. “Alright. Fine. Fine.”

You clap your hands together with a grin. “Great. And hey, if it goes to shit at the very beginning, what can the Handler do? Shoot me?”

“No, but she _can_ shoot me,” Five says back.

“I never thought the day would come when you gave yourself too little credit.”

“Just—” Five splays his fingers out at you irritably. Having done your job, you grin and settle back against the couch. “Once I— _we_ are at the Commission, thus begins the act of subterfuge. I can’t go into all the details because things can play out in a hundred different ways, but if I place the pieces right, I can set up the Handler against Carmichael, who are two big players at the Commission. They’re both incredibly vicious, and they’ve been rivals long before I arrived.”

“Pit them against each other,” Patch says, “and you got a nice opportunity to create chaos, which I’m sure is your actual power.”

Five nods toward her. “She gets it.”

“We all get it,” Diego says flatly. “And I don’t mean to shake your mighty intelligence, but it sounds like you actually have a plan of a plan.”

“Yeah…” Luther agrees. “No offense, Five, but this is a lot of talk for not a lot of details.”

“No offense, Luther,” Five says back with a sharp tilt of his head, “but your whole life has been a lot of talk for not a lot of details, so…”

“Okay, okay, let’s stop all _that_ before it spirals,” you say, motioning to the general space between Luther and Five. “Once we get to the Commission and push Carmichael and the Handler over the edge enough to put them in a metaphorical—or literal—cage match, what are you going to do then? Generally speaking.”

“Excellent question, Eightie,” Five says airily like he wasn’t one interruption away from lashing out at everyone and causing a rift. “Once those two jackasses are too distracted with each other to notice little me—and with everyone else hopefully enamored and gravitating to you…”

You strike a hands-under-chin pose with an awkward schoolgirl grin. Five lightly snorts.

“The infighting may turn the Commission inside-out, which will allow us to eliminate them and wrest control. I don’t want to _keep_ control, but the whole thing will cause enough discord to take away attention from the apocalypse until I can figure out how to permanently remove it off the agenda.

“And I’ll admit,” he continues, holding a hand over his heart, “I don’t have a _complete_ plan. Just enough to get us to another point where we can see what we need to work with. But trust me when I say that the moment I see it, I’ll come up with something utterly brilliant.”

“Wooow, Five,” Allison says with a few slow claps. “You’re really coming along, aren’t you?” Her voice laces with equal parts sarcasm and sincerity, perfected by her beaming actress smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit that you don’t have everything all sorted out _in spite of_ your astounding intelligence.”

“Growth,” Klaus adds. Diego chuckles boyishly, and you and Vanya grin alongside Allison.

Five rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Language, Master Five,” Pogo warns teasingly. Your entire family erupts into good-natured laughter, and even Five can’t hide his begrudging smirk.

“Sorry, Pogo,” he mutters like he’s a teenager again—not really sorry but saying it out of habit.

Once the mini bout of teasing and jabbing subsides, Diego asks Five, “So what are the rest of us going to do, just sit around with our thumbs up our butts while you and Eightie run around at the Commission?”

“Whatever you do in your free time is your business, Diego, but it’ll be something along those lines,” Five responds. “If all goes well, then you’ll be safe. If people suddenly turn up to murder you, then you’ll figure out that the plan has gone to hell. Luckily, the moment Eight and I get to headquarters, time no longer becomes linear. It’s more like a bubble with time happening and not happening all at once. A stasis in 1955. Time passes within the pocket, of course, so you age while you’re in there like you would normally, but the laws are altered. What I’m trying to get at is while Eight and I are there, everything and nothing will have happened. We’ll try to be back by tomorrow, but for us, this whole thing may take weeks. Months, even.”

“There is a safehouse about two hours outside of the city,” Pogo informs before any of the family can dwell on the thought of so much time passing and still none at all. “We shall depart from the house, which is a primary target, and move to a more secure location. That way, we can avoid sitting here and potentially endangering innocents if the fighting spills out into the public. Moving will also keep the Umbrella Academy from drawing unwanted attention from media and law enforcement.”

Nobody says anything when Pogo addresses you as the Umbrella Academy.

You keep a brave face for the sake of them. You’ve never spent more than a couple days away from your family, primarily Vanya. Although you’ll still be with Five, the yawning worry of being so disconnected from everyone else wants to suffocate you, and you can taste dirt and blood in your mouth, zip ties around your wrists, the scratch of the tarp against your cheek.

“I’ll come with you,” Patch says with a grim nod. None of you say it out loud, but her life as a detective is over. It’s a terrible consequence from getting involved with your family, but she handles it with much more dignity than an average person would possess. It’s why you’ve always liked Patch.

You remember the day she and Diego broke up. Patch had been the one who convinced him to join the police academy, to be the one on the right side of the law instead of slipping out as those sirens came screaming in. To be standing alongside Patch and the officers rather than butting heads with them. Diego always wanted to protect people. The police academy seemed to be the perfect course, which would lead him to a new life not as some low-down vigilante but as an _officer._ Officer Hargreeves. Detective Hargreeves in a few years, even.

But cops had rules, regulations, and Diego had lived a life with neither. When he got kicked out of the police academy, his relationship with Patch dissolved soon after. It had been messy because they didn’t want to let go of each other, not really, but they were both prouder people than they are now, and proud people don’t like to compromise.

After you hauled Diego out of a bar before he got too disorderly, he told you about what happened, about what she said, what he said, how Patch was the love of his life and he fucked everything up and maybe he wasn’t meant to do anything good in this world, have anyone good in this world, that maybe he deserved it because he thought he could be a hero but in reality, he was just a disappointment who could only throw knives and not make an actual life, have actual love, be an actual person.

You held Diego while he cried into your shoulder, clinging to your heather gray sweatshirt, drunk and devastated. You got him into your car, stopped by the grocery store, and set him on the couch of your apartment with a spoon and his own carton of ice cream. You and Vanya, partaking in the process, also ate from your own cartons, and the three of you watched reruns of _Golden Girls._

But it seems the apocalypse really brings people back together. You have no complaints. You’re not one of those psycho sisters who’d take Patch aside and hiss, “If you hurt him again, I’ll punch your throat in.” You understand how Diego can be. You know what he actually said to her during their breakup because she told it to you over an earnest cup of coffee. It was bad. She admitted her own harsh words weren’t the best, either.

You just want them to be happy, together or not. You don’t want them to live through the apocalypse and find that it had only been the apocalypse that kept them with each other. You want things to be real, substantial.

Except, maybe you really are the weird sister since you worry and overanalyze your brother’s romantic life.

If anything, you need to ask how Patch is doing. You don’t intend to speak a lot on the subject, but just enough to acknowledge the pain she’s going through, as well as how grateful you are to have her around.

And because you might not get to the conversation now, you’ll have to remember to do it even after the long time you’ll be gone from them.

-

“Your old man sure knew how to decorate, huh?” Patch asks while she and Diego make their way through the underground level. “I actually think he took inspiration from this one movie.”

“What movie?”

_“Saw.”_

Diego chuckles. “Well, this place was a horror house, so it wouldn’t surprise me. Although, I think _he_ was the inspiration for the movie, not the other way around.”

“You got me there.”

They come to Cha-Cha’s cell. Diego knocks twice. “Alright, crazy, don’t think of trying anything. We’ve actually got a plan to dump you back off at the Commission and get out of our hair. So if you don’t want to be hauled out of here handcuffed and unconscious, I suggest you stay calm. We clear?”

“Crystal,” Cha-Cha says with all the dryness in the cell’s ventilation.

Diego slides open the upper slat to make sure she stands far enough away to not pose a threat. When he sees her lazily leaning against the wall, arms folded, he unlocks the cell and opens the door.

She walks out like she had never been imprisoned, and she shoots Diego and Patch a glare that somehow maintains its indifference. “Let me guess,” she says, “little old shit man concocted some scheme.”

“Little old shit man,” Diego repeats with a chuckle. “I’m gonna save that one.”

The three of them walk down the tunnel back to the elevator, and none of them will admit the prickles on the back of their necks, telling them they need to escape for some sinister reason. Patch and Diego try to mitigate the cold fear in their stomachs by talking more, but as they walk, something draws Patch’s attention away from her straightforward vision.

She looks to the right of her and sees another branch of a tunnel. She stops.

“Where does this lead to?” she asks, voice too loud in the tunnel. A light flickers.

“Hell, probably,” Diego replies.

“Scared, Hargreeves?”

“Realistic.”

Against Patch’s better judgement, she starts heading down the branch. Diego groans. “Eudora, let’s _go._ I don’t want to accidentally wake up some alien monster.”

“Like your dad would be stupid enough to keep an alien under his house,” Patch says back. Diego drags Cha-Cha beside him to catch up with her. “He probably has some locked up in a different secret basement.” She then adds, “I’m sure all the things Hargreeves locked up or hid will come crawling out of the cracks sooner or later.”

“So, you’re saying that even after he’s dead, we’ll still have to deal with all the shit he did in life.”

“I mean…”

Patch, Diego, and Cha-Cha come to another cell situated at the end of the tunnel.

“…Look at what you’re having to do now.”

Diego examines the heavy door. The cell they held Cha-Cha in didn’t look so…maximum security.

Patch turns on an ancient light switch on a panel beside the door. The lights in the cell flicker on, fluorescent and dim. They both peer in through the thick glass, half-expecting some monstrosity to jump back at them on the other side. Even Cha-Cha tenses because knowing this freaky-ass family, there is a good possibility that something in the cell could tear her head off.

But it’s empty, and all three let out soft exhales. Diego frowns as he takes in the cell’s structure. Padding meant to eliminate noise lines the walls and ceiling, and even the floor is carpeted to reduce sound.

His heart plummets when he realizes who it was built for—who it once held.

She had been _all alone,_ stuck in this tiny cell, while they played and lived and _forgot about her._

Guilt wants to turn Diego inside-out.

Dad _did_ hold what he thought was a monster underneath this house until her spirit broke and he made her believe she couldn’t be anything at all.

“What the hell is this?” Patch softly questions.

“This was where our dear dad kept Vanya when she was little…right after her powers manifested,” Diego explains.

“Holy shit.”

An involuntarily thought pushes its way into Diego’s head, a thought of putting Vanya back in here should her powers become uncontrollable.

But he has already seen what she can do with just a _minor_ amount of power. It wouldn’t be able to hold her like it did when she was barely more than a toddler, a tiny girl who sits quietly in the back of Diego’s memory with long brown hair and thick bangs. He would push her out of the way when she took too long to move or was annoying him, and besides, it wasn’t like she had any powers to fight back with. When she cried because of what he or the others said and did to her, he would sometimes feel bad and try to make her happy again. Other times, he would tell her to stop being a crybaby and be even more mean to her.

Then there’d be a flash of light, and Diego would fall back on his butt from being pushed down by you.

Your sense of peacekeeping had always been there, but you didn’t find alternative ways to keep your family from being mean to each other until you grew up some more. When Diego would immediately tear up because _you_ hurt _him,_ you would give him a hug but also tell him to apologize to Vanya.

And, like it still is today, Diego’s apologies came mumbling out.

Diego had already been a shit enough brother during their childhood. He’s not going to betray Vanya now. Besides, he can easily draw the conclusion that shoving her into a cell when she needs them the most would only cause more grief and make Vanya’s emotion-related powers dangerously unstable.

The apocalypse can fuck off. Diego isn’t going to let Vanya go anywhere without her family at her side.

“We never saw this,” he says to Patch, leveling her with a serious expression.

Patch nods, just as serious.

They both turn to Cha-Cha and wait. She stares at them for a moment, trying to figure out what they want from her. Once she does, she scoffs and tosses a hand up. “I couldn’t give two fucks about this whole place, but fine. I didn’t see it either.”

This family _tests_ her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=LrhKJXhpR1CocI6l9TVPgw)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)
> 
> I've got five new chapters, and I'll be releasing one every other day. Then I'll take another break to write some more. I intended to complete the rest of the fic before I started posting again, but I'm not nearly as far enough as I want to be for that to happen, and I really want all of you who've been waiting so patiently to have some new stuff.


	32. and i can feel the numbness accompany my plight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Mary"](https://open.spotify.com/track/6dtB54Z7eICDUOPq3QwXuo?si=SmEWdPR2Tfuv-SsNnx9QnA)

The goodbyes are short but meaningful. You whisper words of encouragement to Vanya, thank Patch for sticking with them, tell Mom and Pogo you’ll miss them, and give words of strength to your five other siblings. Everybody needs to protect each other more now than ever.

As you slip from Klaus’ arms, another presence is there beside him. “Klaus, you gotta manifest me,” Ben says. “For real, this time.”

“Not now,” Klaus hisses back under his breath. “They’re about to leave! We can’t waste time, or we’ll have the Commission probing out rectums.”

“Klaus, please. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance.”

“After the apocalypse, obviously. Can’t you wait a couple days?” Klaus huffs and crosses his arms. He needs a cigarette, and he won’t be able to smoke in the car without getting shit, so he plans to slip out into the courtyard and have one final moment of peace before the chaos picks up again.

“I _mean_ I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to talk to Eight.”

Ben receives a side-eye from Klaus. “That’s…a _bad idea,_ Benny,” he says, lowering his voice to a nervous whisper. Everyone else is too caught up final conversations to notice the exchange between him and Ben, but he has to be careful. “I’m not sure now is the right time? I mean, look at her.” Both their gazes turn to you, and they can see through the smile you wear. “She’s putting on a brave face as it is. Do you really need to shatter it?”

“I’m not going to talk about _that,”_ Ben says hastily. Klaus gives him a flat look.

“You’re a shit liar.”

“Okay—well, I _won’t_ talk about it. I promise. I just want her to see me. Please, Klaus? She might not see us for a long time. Shouldn’t she be able to see me?”

Ben’s eyes turn puppyish. Klaus feels his restraint break because of it, and he dramatically slumps forward.

“I just wanted my cigarette,” he whimpers to himself before hurtling back upright, a placid smile fanning across his face.

Klaus claps his hands like some has-been showman. “Eightie!” he declares. You turn to him, attention fixed. Klaus almost wants to say that he’s sorry, that this isn’t his fault, it’s _Ben’s,_ please keep smiling, please understand that he has no idea how to approach this festering revelation all of them have in their ribcages, growing like mold and infecting his beaten lungs, but please keep smiling.

He just wants to say he loves you, really.

You notice the slight panic to Klaus’ eyes, which contrasts with his grin.

Do they really believe that they can get away with you _not_ seeing every single thing in their characters?

The exact same thing that has been concerning you since your family found you sitting still in the apartment with a dead body on the floor resurfaces again. Your smile stays, but brittleness cracks beneath it.

“Yeah?”

“I…. _have a surprise_ for you! A big one! Aaaaand I want to give it to you right now!”

Klaus brings his fists together in a sudden move, crouches forward somewhat, and concentrates so hard that his face turns red. It looks like he’s trying to poop.

Diego makes the same observation apparent. “You look like you’re trying to poop.”

“Gimme…a…second…” Klaus grunts, and the moment he does, the moments his fists glow blue ( the same blue of Vanya’s power, of Five’s jumps, of your light when it reacts), you realize what he is actually trying to do.

Wait—hold on—you’re not—

Ben appears.

He stands in front of Klaus, ethereal and blue and beautiful.

Joy _swells_ inside you, turning your skin into a canvas for ribbons of light. Ben smiles at you, _smiles,_ and you smile back. A gasp flutters in your chest like a small bird having been awoken to the sound of a bell, to the warmth after winter, all feathers and heartbeats and songs.

But the bird must face the reason why it slept in the first place, why this radiance has not gone untainted. Its wings hit the bars of the cage as it grows smaller, smaller, tighter, and the bird’s songs turns to frantic chirps, afraid and overwhelmed by the cold metal, cold bones pressing against its small body. The cage had not been this small once, but death warped it, death and grief and more grief and numbness, and your chest begins to rise and fall like a little bird’s, like a little girl who cannot process Ben and what Ben means and what his death meant and what you did and who you are and who you could have been and what _lurks_ in the back of your mind.

The cage is a box, and the box opens up everything you have become, everything you’ve hid away, everything you’ve put into that box and taken out and all the in-between, but the bird cannot escape, _you_ cannot escape, you haven’t been able to escape ever since the brother who’s standing before you died.

You taste dirt in your mouth, blood thick in your throat, and the bird spreads its wings one final time, feathers against fading yellow, flickers of blue, a futile attempt of escaping something which it cannot.

And so all it can be is pain.

The ribbons of light die the same time as your smile. You put a hand to your chest. This pain, this pain, it’s—it’s killing you, you’re going to die if you don’t, don’t _do_ something.

“Ben,” you whisper, choking on his name through the blood and earth and the rope around your neck. His face reminds you of his death, replaying over and over in your head with each second you stare at him in his adulthood, a death you couldn’t prevent, _your_ death you tried to make true.

Shame amplifies the agony.

The bittersweetness Ben wears doesn’t make sense, either. He should be happy, happy to see you and the family. But little Ben, who always paced anxiously whenever you revised his stories, who always looked so dour when someone upset him, who always grinned at the smell of Griddy’s donuts, never hid his emotions well.

When Ben whispers your name, you don’t exactly hear it. You watch his mouth form _Eightie,_ but a static, a sound of pain buzzes in your ears like flies. You instantly recognize his distress, his strain, his _heartbreak_ in the silent call to you.

Through the translucent blue haze of Ben’s figure, you peer to Klaus behind him and see his own poorly-hidden emotions. He has recovered from his own triumphant surprise at summoning Ben, but he shouldn’t be shunting his gaze to you—his _worry,_ his _fear,_ his _sadness,_ which is all too clear on his face.

Dread settles beneath the weight and static, pushing it further to the surface, pushing it against your sanity, against your box, against your skin, and it _hurts._

Your eyes move against your will. You look to all your other family members and see how they wear similar expressions, how they don’t focus as much attention on Ben as they should be, how they aren’t as _happy_ as they should be.

When you finally fall to Vanya, the truth holds clear on your sister’s face.

A crack splits through your being, silent.

They know.

They know.

_They know._

You’re going to die from the pain. You’re going, going to die, you can’t breathe, you’re going to die.

What should be an overjoyed moment turns into grief before any words are spoken.

Your choke comes out audibly. It breaks the silence consuming you. Everything burns. Your eyes, your throat, your chest, your stomach—light that has been trapped scorches you beneath.

Death is near, the pain is—it’s—you can’t—

“We need to move,” you mutter flatly. Your vacant expression is betrayed only by the thick glisten to your eyes.

Shame turns your blood to ash.

You turn your back on Ben, on your family, and link your hand under Cha-Cha’s arm to lead her out of the house. You convince yourself that you don’t cling to her like a lifeline because she’s the only goddamn sane one who doesn’t _look at you like that._

Cha-Cha doesn’t want any part of this obvious family drama _or_ ghost problems, so she lets herself be taken away outside. She even keeps her mouth shut about your iron grip because she has enough sense to read the room.

Small cries from your family echo behind you, but for once in your life, you don’t listen to them.

The gathering storm clouds above you turn the reflection on the black car dim. You blurrily put Cha-Cha in the backseat of the broken-down shitbox, and once you slam the door, you go weak in the knees. It’s a weakness you haven’t felt since the following weeks after death kissed your lips while you bled out on the operating table.

A jolt of terror passes through you. Leaning against the car, you double over for a few seconds and twist the palms of your hands in your eyes, teeth gritting together. You make a small noise. You want to scream—you want to _cry._

But you don’t.

You swallow it and stand upright.

As soon as you do, though, you see Five standing at the entrance of the alleyway where the car is parked.

He’s…hesitant. Concerned. Fingers twitch at his side, and his brows pinch.

You’re almost surprised at how much you _hate_ the expression Five wears.

Glaring, unshed tears in your eyes, you open the passenger door and get in the car.

That look, _that look_ you gave Five is a physical blow to him. He has to stop himself from holding his stomach like he’s been punched in the gut.

Five bites the inside of his cheek. His feet don’t want to move, but he forces himself to walk to the car. The click of the door opening is especially loud. Five settles into the seat. He turns the keys into the ignition, and he’s not sure if it makes him happy or angry that the old beast sputters to life.

This… _spurn_ from you isn’t natural.

You sit still, hands clasped in your lap, head turned toward the bullet-beaten window. The car lurches out of the alleyway and onto the road.

There is a distant, silly hope in you that this entire ride will have the silence, strained but unbroken. You can deal with it. The silence does not stir the box, and although everything is still too searing-hot to try and pick up again, if you leave it untouched, it won’t be disturbed more than it already has.

But Five has never been one for heavy, tangible silences, and he prefers to shatter instead of suffocate.

“Vanya told us after we found your empty grave,” he explains. “There was a…fight that led up to it.” His voice is low and rough and worn, but there’s also an awkwardness to it that almost makes you believe he’s a teenager again.

What would he have done if he’d been there when _you_ were a teenager, meticulously tying a knot like Dad had taught all of you for survival purposes in the quiet of the attic?

You don’t speak. Five shifts while he drives. You can feel him glance at you, waiting. Waiting for what, though? Admission? Reaction? Repentance? Justification?

“How come you never wanted to tell anyone, huh?” Five goes on. “How come you made Vanya keep it out of the book?”

He knows the answer. You hear it in his voice. Why does he want you to say it out loud yourself? It was in the past, a moment of _weakness._ You regretted it the instant you kicked the stool out from under you, and your shame scarred you deeper than your soul when you had to watch the look of horror on Vanya’s face once she found you hanging still. Bringing it up would only hurt _them,_ and your family had been dealt enough hurt in their lives. They didn’t need the source to come from you, their shield. It would have been betrayal.

It is betrayal in a different way now, and for a moment, a twitch of anger pulls the corner of your lip downward. Then it’s gone again.

“Goddamnit, Eight, give me a _fucking answer.”_

When your head snaps to Five, he startles at the cold fury encompassing your face, which is the true form of the expressionless mask you so often wear.

 _“What_ do you want to know about it, Five?” you hiss just above a whisper. “It happened. It was _fourteen fucking years ago._ It was—it no longer is.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” he argues back, barely keeping his volume restrained. “You tried to—to—” His mouth twists like there is something rancid in his mouth.

You scoff. “What? I tried to fucking kill myself? I did. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and it does _not_ warrant any conversation because it was beyond ridiculous and embarrassing.”

“Are you _serious?”_ Five sneers in disbelief. “Did you really just say those words? What if one of us had done it, Eight, what if _they_ tried to keep it a secret? What would you have done? How would you have reacted?”

 _“I_ am not my family, and none of _you_ are me. And the fact that you all tried to spring it on me? That _Ben_ showed up just to bring it out in the open? What was this all about? Some fucking intervention?”

“No—”

“Yeah? Because you all were acting real fucking awkward around me _after_ the other night.” You sit straight forward and glare at the city before you. “So sensitive and guilty whenever you said something you would have said without feeling bad any other time. Do you think I can take that for the rest of my life? Walking on eggshells because Eightie might try to kill herself again if you say mean things that might push me over the edge? I am _not_ like that, but the fact that all of you treated me that way tells you how much you know about me.”

“Can you blame us? God, of _course_ we’d act like that! We had no fucking clue what to do!”

“You could have _dropped. It.”_

Five barks a grating, humorless laugh. “Oh, yeah, because you know us so well to think we _would._ Or is that how you actually think about us, Eight? That we wouldn’t have a damn reaction to you trying to commit suicide?”

“You were never supposed to _have_ a reaction—”

“And what about Vanya, huh? Because she’s had to keep that secret for you her entire life. You ever think about how that messed her up? Ben, too, because I guess he _watched_ you try to do it.”

The mention of Vanya and Ben and their proximity to the most humiliating, hurtful thing you ever did has your vision briefly seeing double, prismatic and saturated with vertigo.

You have to force air into your lungs to speak. “I didn’t know about Ben,” you admit quietly. “And what do you think the others would have done to Vanya when we were kids once they knew she was the one who found me? They would have come up with some way to pin it on her, blame her, even though she did nothing wrong. And if she had put it in the book, what then? Less blame on her, maybe, but more blame on themselves, which could have… _fractured_ us.”

“You couldn’t have been certain,” Five mutters.

“I know my family,” you say. “I knew them back then, and I know them now.”

There is a pause, a lull in which Five realizes just what you’ve done, just what you’ve implied. It is the first time you’ve ever intentionally tried to hurt him.

“So, I don’t know my family,” he reiterates, flat with a twist in his mouth that’s not a frown or a smile. _So,_ he adds without syllables and voice and sound, _I don’t know you._

“You were gone a long time.” You don’t argue with Five’s assessment.

He blinks slowly. His own bitter beast of guilt gnaws at the withered, sun-bleached bones inside him.

You’re not sure how much time passes. It becomes unimportant, non-linear. You are a child who stares out the window and dreams of a life you may one day have. You are a teenager who stares out the window and lets waves of despair crash into you, too empty to cry, wishing for an escape until the thought consumes you that _what if you can._ You are a young woman who stares out the window and thinks that this life isn’t so bad, and you have to appreciate every day, every single person, because you wanted to give it up at one point and it had been _stupid, stupid, stupid._ You are yourself, staring out the window of a moving car, staving off the pain that accompanies this conversation.

“It’s my biggest regret, you know.”

Five utters the statement to break the silence again, but it’s a softer break, a break exposed within himself.

“Not being there for any of you.”

“And what would you have done if you had been there, Five?” you whisper back. “Would you have recognized your love at all?”

“Of course—” But Five falters, and it shakes him. “Of course I would have.”

“Really.”

Much more goes unsaid. You feel bad for saying what you did, even if you do believe it in a terrible part of your mind, and you don’t want the hurt you’re cupping in your hands to spill over and stain your clothes.

“I’m not sorry for not telling you,” you say in a soft, finalizing tone. “But I am sorry for making you all hurt. I wish…I could take it all back, what I did.”

You wish you could have saved Ben in the first place. You wish you could have stopped Five in the first place. Then maybe, maybe mud wouldn’t have filled your veins, dirt in your mouth, and you wouldn’t have wanted it all gone.

The irony stands clearly to you. For someone who fears that pain will lead to death, you once wanted death to kiss you again and keep kissing you until you no longer felt the kisses at all. It adds to your shame.

“It wasn’t anybody’s fault, though. It was all on me.”

Five doesn’t believe your statement, but he believes your sincerity.

He clears the thickness in his throat. “Yeah, well…don’t do it again. And if, if you _ever_ feel…”

When Five finds he can’t finish his sentence from the fear that he’ll say the wrong thing (because he’s said too many wrong things in his life, and he can’t afford it now, not again), as well as his stunted capability when it comes to emotional articulation, he inhales through his nose and tapers off.

“I won’t,” you reply, although you’re afraid that it’s a lie. You wanted it when you had been buried.

But had you? Truly?

From the backseat, Cha-Cha groans and sits forward, making her presence known. She had contemplated throwing herself out of the car because she had just heard a conversation _not_ meant for her ears. And hell, she wants to stay away from this Hargreeves family shit as much as she can, so she keeps the topic at bay with a ten-foot pole.

“Pull up at this payphone, old timer. It’ll work.”

Cha-Cha is the first one out of the car when it stops on the curb, the front tire propped up onto the sidewalk. She tugs her vest down and sends an annoyed glance at the overcast sky.

She’s said it once, and she’ll say it again. This family has _issues._ The moment Cha-Cha can get away from them, she might just dance.

Hurrying to the payphone, Cha-Cha picks up the phone and dials the Commission code.

You unbuckle yourself. It makes sense that this moment of your past would come up with Five around, really; he has been nothing but a force of upturn and chaos since he arrived.

Still, you love him. That has never been questioned.

“Ready?” Five asks. He straightens his tie in the rearview mirror.

“No. But it has to be done.”

The two of you look at each other again. When Five is obviously at a loss for words, you almost smile at the unusual sight.

You squeeze his cheeks with your fingers instead, a quick gesture. It speaks mixtures of, _I love you, we’ll talk about this later, we’ll see our family again, I’m afraid, you’re afraid, I’m mad but I can’t speak it, we have to be strong._

Once your hand drops, Five manages a smile that’s little more than dimples momentarily surfacing, but there’s less self-loathing in his gaze.

Then the two of you get out of the car, Cha-Cha hangs up the phone, and the first droplets of rain slow to a complete stop with the rest of the world before they can speckle your shoulders.

“Neat trick, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=jhahoZFyRZusWmhETxah6w)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)
> 
> Like Eight would actually let a healthy conversation ensue. I'm sorry if everyone wanted a nice, calm conversation between the family. I did, too, but ever have a scene go nothing the way you planned? Yeah, well, this was one of those scenes. But she and Five got to talk a bit, which is kind of a start.


	33. i should be better off without you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["We're Through"](https://open.spotify.com/track/5ZtfnXND8dgBljCTwuSunP?si=KrKtlCWBRpWiCGT7Q2lhRg)

“Well, what do we have here? Two schoolchildren skipping class? How very naughty.”

The woman stands stark in her fashionable black outfit against the frozen, saturated world around you. She holds a bulky black briefcase in one hand, and the other lifts the birdcage veil over her fascinator. Her lips are painted red, and they pull back into a vulpine grin when she looks at you over the rim of her black sunglasses.

This woman has dressed for an occasion, dressed to kill. You respect that.

Even if you don’t respect anything else.

She takes her sunglasses off and regards the two of you with beautiful, cold eyes.

“Hello, Five. You look good, all things considered.”

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, making it clear he means the opposite.

The Handler’s grin doesn’t change. “Feels like we met just yesterday.” Her voice comes out smooth and light. “Course, you were a little bit older then. Congratulations on the age regression, by the way. Very clever. Threw us all off the scent.”

“Ah, well, I wish I could take credit. I just miscalculated the time dilation projections, and…well, you know. Here I am.” Five splays his arms out for a brief second.

Her eyes move to you. “At least you aren’t the odd one out, I suppose. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Eight.”

You don’t say anything back. The Handler’s grin widens. “And I see you’re still alive, Cha-Cha,” she says, moving on to the assassin. “What a nice surprise. Although, I am somewhat disappointed in your…abilities to handle both the situation and your rogue partner.”

The tone in the Handler’s voice makes you rile, even though Cha-Cha has done nothing but try to kill you and your family. It’s not her fault her own agency sent her completely blind into a situation.

Cha-Cha doesn’t shrink away from the comment. She stands and takes it. The Handler sees that she won’t be able to play with her emotions like she wants, so she focuses back on Five.

“Have you finally realized that your efforts are futile? That what’s meant to be is meant to be?”

“Something like that,” Five replies, hands dipping into his pockets. “I’m tired. My family is tired. We can’t run forever. So, we’ve come to make a deal.”

“Oh, well, then, I’m all ears.” The Handler waves a hand. The glint of her red nail polish moves vibrantly through the stasis.

“You stop hunting down our family. I come to work for the Commission in exchange for their safety. Eight will come, too, as a sort of consenting ransom.”

Her gaze roves back to you. It holds a hunger to it, faint but present.

The Handler isn’t aware that you all know how Vanya causes the apocalypse. Their safety will never be guaranteed, and the Commission still intends to make sure everyone blows up with the rest of the world. But, technically, being safe from the _Commission_ isn’t the same as being safe from _Vanya._ It’s a doable enough deal: the false security to get their best assassins back, gain another super-powered agent, cover up this botched mission to save face, and still ensure the apocalypse.

You can see the Handler reach the same conclusion in her bright blue eyes ringed with immaculate eyeliner and shadow.

“And what about the briefcase?” the Handler inquires airily. “Hazel? These things cannot be brushed past.”

“Hazel took the briefcase before I could stop him,” Cha-Cha explains, and since it’s technically true, she doesn’t have to bother hiding the malice curling her lip. “I almost had him, but this family got in the way.”

Okay, well, she doesn’t have to shoot you such an _honest_ glare.

“I’m quite surprised they didn’t kill you,” the Handler says to her.

“So am I,” Cha-Cha mutters back like it’s such an inconvenience. “But they didn’t, and I’m still here. I’ll go after Hazel myself if I’m allowed, get that briefcase back, and show him what _usually_ happens when someone breaks their contract.”

She pointedly speaks to Five at the last part. He ignores her, unbothered.

“That’s good to hear,” the Handler smiles. You figure she’s probably already laying her own plans, and you’re not excited to find out what they are.

“What’ll it be?” Five asks. “Want to put an end to all this?”

“It’s nice to see that you’ve let go of this fantasy of rallying your family to stop the apocalypse, Five.” The Handler reaches out and taps her fingernail on his jaw. “And you’re in luck; I’ve been authorized to allow you back into the welcoming arms of the Commission should some requirements be met. My superiors will be excited to hear that we have yet another capable recruit, too.”

She brings the briefcase in front of her. “Your family will no longer be bothered.” Lie. “In exchange, you and Eight will dedicate your lives to the Commission until we release you from your positions after an appropriate amount of time.” Lie. “Cha-Cha will be pardoned from her shortcomings and continue to faithfully serve the agency.” Probably a lie. “And we’ll all be back to our happy selves!”

 _Definite_ lie.

“Do we have a deal?” Five extends his hand. The Handler clasps it.

“We do indeed, Five.”

Their hands drop back down to their sides. The Handler holds the briefcase out with a cheerful disposition. “Shall we?”

Five takes hold of the briefcase handle first. Cha-Cha does it second. You’re the last. The Handler catches you staring at her, and she gives a cheeky wink in return.

This is all for your family, you remind yourself, and when you get back, you are going to… _talk._

Maybe a little time apart from them first will do you some good.

A buzzing, a tugging consumes you, and the world turns into a kaleidoscope of blue.

-

In another timeline removed from this one, a version of you tries to convince your family that something is happening to Vanya, that she needs your help, that her new boyfriend is doing something to her.

Well, your family says back in their own ways, maybe you’re just being a little too attached to Vanya. Maybe things aren’t as bad as you think. Maybe it’ll actually be good for you to take some time apart from her.

Dad just died, Klaus in particular says, why don’t you let her live a little to celebrate?

But Vanya becomes unnaturally cold toward you like she believes the same. Like _she_ is the one who has relied too much on you, that you’ve kept her from being the person she wants to be. She made it as first chair, and you’re not even _happy_ for her?

You are, you’re just—it’s—can’t she _see_ what her boyfriend is doing to her?

Leonard is the first person in Vanya’s life to actually like her, and maybe if you weren’t so selfish, you’d understand that.

Three days before that apocalypse, you find yourself in an empty apartment, helpless and hopeless.

But Allison comes, even though she was supposed to fly back to LA that day. You nearly cry at the sight of her standing on the other side of the door, and she takes a little pride knowing that _you’re_ the one who needs her for once. She listens to you, and she admits her sister-radar went off when she met Leonard herself. Something about their relationship doesn’t sit right with her, and she’s sorry for doubting you. The others will come around, too. You just need to find proof for them—and proof for Vanya. It’s not to prove her wrong; it’s to _protect_ her.

The two of you start to devise a plan. For a brief amount of time, you feel hopeful.

In this timeline, three days before the apocalypse, it’s raining, and the Hargreeves family piles into the spacious, new car Pogo called to be delivered to the mansion. When Luther accidentally bumps Klaus with his elbow, he doesn’t even complain about it.

Instead, once they’re settled and Diego gets them on the road as the driver, Klaus slumps back onto the crisp leather seat and puts on a pair of Allison’s sunglasses he swiped from her stuff. It hides the bleariness in his eyes.

“Well,” he sighs, being the first one to really speak since you and Five left, “that was absolute shit.”

“I didn’t even talk to her, and she _still_ knew,” Ben says. Klaus grimaces at the strained self-loathing in his brother’s voice.

“Don’t blame yourself too much, Benny. Eightie can read us like a fucking book. She can even read you, and you’re, well, dead.”

Allison, who sees Vanya’s hand shaking, covers it with her own and quietly asks, “Are _you_ okay?”

When Vanya looks to Allison, she slightly blanches at the expression on her timid sister’s face. Vanya’s jaw clenches, and her dark brown eyes shine.

“She’s always done this, you know,” Vanya says lowly. “She’s always tried to ignore it like it never existed, and what does she do when she has to confront it? She runs. I’m _angry,_ Allison.”

Allison’s mouth opens and closes. Instinctive fear stutters her heart before she can help it. “Are you…do you feel…?”

Vanya scoffs. “No, I’m not going to blow up,” she snips, and if it were any other situation, Allison would have bristled at her tone. “I want to, but not because I can’t control it.”

A few moments of silence pass between them, then something…clicks in Allison’s head.

Without lifting her hand from Vanya’s, Allison levels her sister with a gaze none of their brothers have ever received or understood. It’s a gaze that says they can’t set out to prove you wrong about your actions. It’s a gaze that says you need to be protected.

The heat in Vanya’s veins cools, forming hope in its wake.

-

As soon as your feet find solid ground on the floor of an observatory-like building, everything inside of you starts to _itch._

You manage to ignore it long enough to walk outside with Five, Cha-Cha, and the Handler, but once you step into the gray daylight, your light starts going haywire. It spikes and flares, yellow with underlying twists and bursts of blue. You have to stop to groan and rub the sides of your head.

“Whoa,” Cha-Cha says. “What’s wrong with you?”

You suddenly spasm upright as a jolt of _wrongness_ sizzles through your spine, leaving your jaw all tingly like you ate something too sour. The twitches worsen the more you focus on the thousands of ants underneath your skin. Through chattering teeth, you reply, “D-don’t know. I feel— _yeesh!”_

“Eight?” Five asks, stopping to observe you with furrowed brows, and you can’t help but attempt to shoot him a glare for giving you such a look. He probably takes it as general discomfort, however, because he doesn’t react to it. “You’re…glitching.”

You scratch at your back like you have fleas. “N-no s-s-shit.”

The light ripples prismatically before sucking back into your body like a switch flipped off. It doesn’t do much to remedy the current _fire_ that courses through you, but it at least stops you from being a beacon. Your fingernails scrape at your calves and thighs, then move with the unseen rash up to your stomach, then chest, then neck and finally to your eyeballs. You drag the skin underneath your eyes down and let out another noise that’s at a higher octave than normal. “What—what’s g-going _on?”_

The Handler chuckles. “It’s most likely a reaction to the displaced pocket dimension we’re in. To be honest, I’m impressed your powers make you sensitive to such things. When new recruits first jump with their briefcases, they experience similar side effects, but none to this degree. Why, Five didn’t even react when he was first brought here. What interesting niches our bodies have, wouldn’t you say?”

Five’s brows furrow more at the information. You would be more concerned if your organs didn’t feel like slinkies, so any discussion about it will have to wait.

You shake your arms at the sides and kick your legs out like an idiot as if doing the exercises will get rid of the sensations. You’re not sure if it actually helps or if your body simply adjusts, but you manage to maintain a normal walk with only a few involuntary finger twitches as you enter the main building. The Handler prattles off to Five while Cha-Cha gets stuck having to walk beside you.

As soon as you reach the top of the stairs, the Handler turns to you with a smile. “I’m afraid this is where we part ways, Eight. Your new _partner_ here will show you the ropes and take you where you need to get started as the Temps Commission’s newest temporal assassin.”

You stare. Five stares. Cha-Cha stares.

 _“What?”_ Five and Cha-Cha hiss simultaneously.

“No, no, that wasn’t part of the deal,” Five goes on when Cha-Cha scowls at you like this is all your fault. Your eyelid twitches sporadically in return. “I never said—”

“She _works_ for the Commission now, Five,” the Handler idly interrupts. “What did you expect? That I’d give her a janitorial job? Her assets, like yours, will be a great benefit to our organization. And who better to pair her up with than someone who is already familiar with her? Oh, don’t look so down, Cha-Cha, you’re hurting my feelings.”

“Then make _me_ partners with her,” he argues with a simmering sneer.

“You’ve always been a solo agent. Why would we break that persona now? And besides, we have something _much_ better in store for you than a field job. Think of it as an upgrade! A promotion!” The Handler boops Five on the nose. He jerks away from it, but that only causes her to widely grin, white teeth framed by blood red. “In due time, Eight here may even be able to join you, should she prove herself.”

“But—”

The Handler takes Five by the shoulders and shuffles him away, calling, “Give Eight a tour of headquarters before third bell, Cha-Cha. Afterward, deliver her to orientation.”

Five throws one last glance at you over his shoulder. He sees you nod once, assuring him that you’ll be fine. Honestly, it’s a little insulting that he feels so protective over you. The argument you just had with him about…that thing…rises in your mind, and it threatens to rankle your thin façade of calm.

Cha-Cha gives you a once-over, then mumbles to herself, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Okay, don’t act so happy,” you say. “It honestly doesn’t suit you.”

“Shut up.” Cha-Cha lets out a long, drawn-out sigh while she stares off into space to process the revelation. Then she snaps back into this pocket reality and hauls you forward by the arm. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“What’s orientation?” you ask as she gives the _worst_ tour of your life.

“It’s what all new recruits go through. Tells you all about the rules, regulations, standards, and requirements at the Commission.”

“How long will it take?”

“Can’t remember. Long enough to make you want to kill yourself.”

She has the _audacity_ to shoot you an awkward look. You roll your eyes, which is delivered on the perfect platform of your teenage face.

 _“Don’t_ you start.”

“I wasn’t gonna start anything, you stunted little freak.”

“That’s better.”

Three bells ring throughout the interior of the building. Cha-Cha leads you up another floor, turns down a hall, then gestures to a room that’s set up with desks. A few people already sit in some. “There’s the orientation room. Wait for me once it’s done while I go and clean up.”

“And then we’ll be certified partners?” you question.

“Remind me again, and I’ll see how well you do being fed to a woodchipper.”

Cha-Cha pauses, pushes her lips out, then reluctantly mutters, “But…if I have to work with anyone, better you than Five. I can’t stand that raisin.”

You smile in sincerity, which causes Cha-Cha to promptly turn on her heels, flipping you off as she leaves.

A woman hands you an orientation packet when you enter the room. You snag an extra pencil from her desk in case you need to take some notes and settle into a seat. With your academy uniform, the outward appearance of your age, and the style of the desk you’re in, you’re sure you look like a real laugh.

The Commission is weird enough, though, that nobody gives you any shit or even sends you lingering looks. The people in the orientation room all stare straight ahead at the projector when it flickers to life, including yourself, and you start to figure out just what exactly this organization entails.

When you see in the film that the breakroom donuts cost money, you’re certain that this place and the dictators who control it need to burn.

But orientation helps you forget the crisis that happened only a couple hours ago, and you diligently take notes on the blank lines the orientation packet provides at the very back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=MuW5nEvwSTe_agWOVWYQ4A)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)


	34. hunting high and low, exact revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Blood Like Lemonade"](https://open.spotify.com/track/7bsPIUEEOuL5WlOPcYUrYx?si=k9vWKpHcQEyfVO2kt3Z6-w)

The chair Five sits in squeaks. There’s a hitch in the top drawer where his pens are, and the letters N, H, and P are too stiff on the typewriter in front of him. Still, he works, ignoring the stares of the other drones in the room.

The little guy who sits across from him leans over and whispers through the clacking and dinging haze of the typewriters, “Name’s Herb,” he says with a much too enthusiastic smile. “Big, big fan of you Hargreeves.”

Five doesn’t acknowledge that Herb’s speaking, but he continues on, either blissfully unaware of Five’s disposition or desperate enough to try and spark a conversation. “Heard Eight is here, too. Can’t wait to meet her! She seems like a real swell lady.”

“She is,” Five monotonously replies while he types. He doesn’t realize he even spoke until after the fact. Herb grins and, seemingly satisfied with such a short but honest answer, returns to his work.

You shouldn’t be in a place like this, let alone be a _killer_ for this place, no matter how short of a time you’ll both be here.

He can’t let himself be distracted by it, though. That’s what they want: to trip him up, test him. Five won’t give them the satisfaction of gloating.

Even though the lunch bell rings, Five stays to get the work required of him finished. At some point, he has a certain _amphibious_ someone to visit.

-

Cha-Cha leans against the wall outside of the orientation room. With all forms, contracts, and agreements filled out and signed, you pretend to smoke a joint then throw it away into an imaginary trash bin. “Just handed my soul over to the Commission,” you proclaim to your partner. “I’m a new woman.”

Cleaned up and only _mildly_ pissed, Cha-Cha uncrosses her arms and jerks her head to the right. “Come on, _new woman,_ you need a suit. Can’t go killing people looking like some orphaned schoolgirl.”

“But, I mean, wouldn’t that be such an original style to kill someone in?”

“Take it up with them, not me.”

The tailor’s department is filled with orderly arrays of suits, vests, ties, dresses, skirts, blouses, shirts, trousers, shoes, socks, suspenders, and undershirts. There is some variation, but only within Commission-approved guidelines. The tailor, a tall, graying man with livers-spotted hands and a neat mustache who looks like he was stolen from the 1800s (probably had been), takes one glance at you and begins plucking garments off the endless racks and drawers.

“Occupation?” he inquires.

“Temporal assassin,” Cha-Cha replies for you. He hums.

“Very well. You are small, but some alterations on your suit will be quick.”

He hands you some blazers, several pants, a white button-down, a tie, and a few vests of your choice.

“Hurry up,” Cha-Cha says from the other side of the dressing room while you change. “This isn’t some trip to the mall.”

“But I was craving soft pretzel bites so badly.”

You know what you like, so it doesn’t take you long to choose the outfit you’ll stick with.

The dressing room door opens. You walk out in your own dark blue Commission suit. The pants are high-waisted with a slim taper around the ankles, paired alongside black ankle-cut dress shoes and matching black socks. Suspenders attach to the top of the pants and climb over your tucked-in white shirt. You opted for no vest once you found out you weren’t required to wear one. A hand smooths over the black tie that hangs down your front.

Cha-Cha clicks her tongue. “Not bad. You finished?”

“Yeah.”

The tailor makes quick work of adjustments with uncanny speed. You don’t even have to wait long. You have to leave your academy uniform behind, though, and it does pain you a little that you don’t have a chance to say goodbye to the ugly plaid pinafore dress and knee-high socks.

“This will have to come off,” the tailor says, tapping a long finger against the metal band around your wrist. “It is a dress code violation.”

 _“The timeline is your lifeline,”_ the PA system chimes overhead.

“It’s welded on,” you say.

“Then weld it off.”

You turn your wrist up to regard the Umbrella Academy insignia carved into the metal. It really wouldn’t make a difference if it came off. You’d still be part of your family. You’d still have your identity, and honestly, why don’t you rid yourself of the last lingering piece of your past that caused you nothing but misery?

“I’ll take it up with management, then.”

The tailor shrugs and doesn’t press it, muttering something like, “Your funeral.”

“You really wanna get a mark on your record your first day here?” Cha-Cha lowly questions you as the two of you leave.

“For someone as mean as you are, you care a lot about code and protocol, don’t you?” You tug the sleeve of your blazer down to easily cover the band.

“Just don’t drag me down with you when you get in trouble for it. Already happened with one partner—it’s _not_ happening with you.” Cha-Cha points her finger at you for good measure.

“Alright, alright, I won’t. Promise. Now, can we please eat? I’m starving.”

“Me, too. Come on. I’ll show you where the cafeteria is. The food is shit, by the way.”

“Mm. Because of budget cuts?”

“Don’t let management hear you say that out loud.”

You smirk.

As the two of you walk down the hall where a steadier flow of employees are heading, a couple of people dressed in the life-sucking colors of the Commission spot your face among the throng and suddenly grow excited. They whisper things to each other and wait expectantly. Cha-Cha groans. To you, she mutters, “Case management drones. Just ignore them.”

“That’s rude.”

Years of being part of the Umbrella Academy helped you master your greeting grin, but now you can actually put a genuine touch to it. The woman, who wears glasses and has her black hair pulled into a neat 50’s bun, gives you a happy wave and a wide, ecstatic grin. “Hello!” she chimes. Because you slow to a stop, Cha-Cha rolls her eyes and has to stop as well. “Hi, sorry to bother you, but we—” she gestures to the oddly small man behind her, “just wanted to give you, the Commission’s _newest recruit,_ a warm welcome! I’m Dot. This is Herb.”

You hold out your hand to shake. Dot takes it like she’s been offered a solid piece of gold, and Herb is next in line. “It’s an honor, Eight Hargreeves,” he beams. “Wow, I, I can’t believe I’m actually _shaking_ hands with you! If I thought working with Mr. Five was a treat, then meeting you makes this day sweeter than a pineapple upside-down cake!”

Although you can’t see Cha-Cha’s face, you _feel_ her eyes roll.

“Aw, you’re too kind. So, you met Five?”

“Oh, yes, we did. He got moved to case management, which is where Dot and I work. What a character!” Herb says it with a fond chuckle, but your brows scrunch.

“Uh oh. He’s not being mean to you, is he? I’ll knock him around if he is. The trick is to wear his powers down; he can’t teleport forever.”

Herb laughs some more, and you get a feeling that he and Dot are actually nice people. “I’ll be sure to do that if he does.”

“Good, please do. And I mean it. He’s starting a fresh page here, and for me, I want to make sure we’re both doing good by our name.”

Herb, blushing, rocks back and forth on his feet. Dot not-so-subtly nudges his arm with her elbow, looking very pleased at the fact. “Have you seen Five by any chance? I was hoping to catch him.”

“Sorry, no, we haven’t,” says Herb. “He stayed in the office when the rest of us went on lunch break. And here we are!”

You push your lips to the side, and not because you’re only thinking about him missing a meal. He’s probably getting up to no good for the sake of your _good family name,_ so all you have to do is play along and not raise suspicion on your part.

“Oh, well, that’s too bad. He’s kind of a workaholic, though, so keep an eye on him while I’m away.”

Herb salutes you diligently. “Understood, Miss Eight.”

“Come on, I’m starving,” Cha-Cha says. “Don’t know when we’ll get an actual meal, so we’d better grab it while we can.”

“Herb, Dot, it was a pleasure meeting you both. Again, if you need anything, just reach out to me, alright? Even if you have to shoot a pneumatic tube my way.”

“We sure will!”

They both wave at you as you walk away with Cha-Cha. “They’re certainly nice,” you say as you slip your hands into the comfy pockets of your pants. You don’t do it to look like an old, impatient man like Five; you do it because you saw Allison strike up the same pose in fashion photos and premieres, and you’ve always wanted to look as cool as her. It shows off your suspenders, too. You hardly ever get to feel good in clothing because of your frozen appearance, so you’re not going to pass up a moment to put some effort into your step.

Turns out, people _also_ put some effort into avoiding Cha-Cha like the plague, so you commend Herb and Dot for being so brave. You have a feeling that you should be a little intimidated by her, but honestly, you had to deal with Reginald Hargreeves your entire childhood; you can deal with her prickliness. And besides, once you’ve knocked someone’s head around a few times and fed them food through a slat in a cell, you kind of lose any fear toward them.

Oh, and Cha-Cha still did torture Klaus, so you’re going to get her back for that in some way before this is all over.

“Come on.” Cha-Cha swipes her mouth with a napkin, stands up, and tugs her vest down. “We need to get our assignment, _partner.”_

“Wait, you’re not going to take your tray?” you ask, standing as well. When Cha-Cha just shrugs, you give her a flat look. “Wow. You’re inconsiderate, too.”

“It’s not like anybody else does it—people will come and clean it up anyway.”

“You know—” You drop your voice to just above a whisper. “You know there have been _cutbacks._ There’s no staff to clean up your fucking mess.”

“Alright, damn, fine, I’ll take the tray.”

Cha-Cha makes a rather noisy show of picking up her tray and sauntering over to drop-off station. You follow behind her, and once she slides the tray onto the belt, she gives you a needless side-eye. “Okay, wow,” you drawl.

“I don’t know how I’m going to be able to stand you.”

“So I tell you be a decent person, and it’s suddenly the worst thing in the world?”

“In case you haven’t realized it yet, you’re an assassin now. _Being decent_ isn’t really our forte.”

“I think you can still kill people and not be a jackass in your general life. I mean, look at Hazel—”

 _“Don’t_ bring up Hazel,” Cha-Cha growls. The two of you climb the stairs.

“Yikes, okay.”

The Handler seems to be waiting for you when you’re allowed to enter into her office. It’s decadent and tasteful, giving you all the more reason to hate her—because the bad guys shouldn’t have a sense of _aesthetic._

“Welcome, welcome, my newest favorite team!” the Handler says with a wide grin. You check to see if there’s any lipstick on her white teeth.

There isn’t, which makes you even more irate.

“Take a seat, why don’t you?”

You settle warily into one of the two chairs for you and Cha-Cha, who looks just as about as uncomfortable as you do. So, everybody basically feels that way about the Handler. That’s good. Not that you have anything against powerful women; you just have something against powerful, evil women who want to destroy your family and the world and let your sister be the cause of it.

“I heard you were a very diligent note-taker during orientation, Eight,” the Handler says. “What a good sign.”

You pat the inner pocket of your blazer where your newly-issued Commission booklet resides. “Just didn’t want to miss anything.”

“Such passion! I can already see you’re brimming with it. And, I must say, my superiors are _very_ pleased to have you on our side, working with one of our best.” She gestures to Cha-Cha. “We cannot wait to see how you stand on your own and as a counterpart to Five’s work as a temporal assassin. You seem to have a…” The Handler’s shoulders shimmy. _“Violent_ and _creative_ streak in you that’s entirely yours. It’s really quite refreshing to see it packed into the body of a young woman. Why, you remind me of myself! It’s like looking in a mirror.”

You only smile. The Handler doesn’t see your feet turn inward, toes curling like they’re the only thing stopping you from ruining Five’s plans and killing her right here. But that would be impulsive, and you and the family ragged on Five for having the exact same tendencies.

“I won’t keep you here forever,” she goes on. “It wasn’t difficult to decide what your first mission would be as an assassin, Eight, and as partners with Cha-Cha. This is something that can prove your… _mettle.”_

The Handler gives Cha-Cha a manila folder with a case number typed on the tab. She opens it up, and you lean over to see what it entails.

Your stomach drops.

It’s not a case file. It’s an _agent’s_ file.

Paper-clipped to the top corner of the file is a photo of Hazel. Cha-Cha snags the piece of paper beneath it, reads what it says, then hands it to you.

_Terminate Hazel and Agnes Rofa_

Great.

“Damn,” Cha-Cha says noncommittally while she rifles through the file.

You reread the mission like the words will change, but when they don’t, you take on an expressionless face to not show the Handler any weakness or reluctance. You can’t give yourself away from the very start. Everything, everything from here on out will be a test. Fail, and it’s over.

“Hazel’s broken contract needs to be cleaned up. Unfortunately, he’s liquidated any other agents who we’ve sent after him once we’ve managed to track his location. Tie up this loose end, get the briefcase back, and you, Cha-Cha, won’t have a permanent mark on your record, nor will you face disciplinary actions for fucking up such a simple task of eliminating Five—no offense, Eight, you know how this business is—and not noticing that your partner intended to go rogue.”

“Understood.” Cha-Cha closes the file and puts it back on the desk. “I’m eager to get to work.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” the Handler grins. Her blue eyes pierce you. “Eight? Are you ready?”

Hazel risked everything to save you, and he just wanted to be happy with a nice donut lady.

A plan starts to form.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ooh, so professional. I love it. Call me ma’am whenever!”

The Handler rises, and so do you and Cha-Cha. She sees you both out. “I have high expectations for you two. And remember, the entire Commission is watching to see you succeed. Oh, and Eight…”

You turn to the Handler the moment she slips some thin chain over your head. “Since you cannot have a tracker physically placed in you, wear one at all times.” Her sharp red nail pulls the collar of your button-down out enough to drop a familiar, pill-shaped green tracker underneath your clothes. “Take it off, and we’ll have to do what we initially planned.”

“Let me guess,” you sigh, “either swallowing one repeatedly or putting one up my ass. Repeatedly.”

“Very intuitive.” The Handler straightens your tie in a motherly way, but there’s something off about it. “Well, best be off! I’ll see you two later when you report your swift accomplishment.”

Cha-Cha and you mutter your thanks and step out the door. As soon as it closes behind you, you readjust your tie.

“Let’s go get a damn briefcase,” Cha-Cha says.

“Did you see where his current location was? Because that’d be really awkward if we had to go back in there to get the file.”

She scoffs like you’ve insulted her. “Of course I did. I’m not stupid.”

“Just checking.”

A figure clad in academy uniform waits outside of a particular office situated a few rooms before you reach the stairs. Five leans against the hallway, and his vision hones in on you once he sees you step outside of the Handler’s office.

Cha-Cha whispers, “Great,” under her breath when she sees Five as well. He pushes off the wall and meets you halfway. The buzz of typewriters clacking buzz in the hall, but it’s more muted than it’d be if you stood in an exact room.

“Hey, stranger,” you greet. Five takes in your new outfit.

“I need to get me one of those again,” he says without even saying hello back.

“Oh, wow, nice to see you, too.”

“Sorry.” Five snaps out of his AARP dreaming and looks back to you. “So, looks like you’re on your way out. Mission already?”

“Yeah. It’s Hazel—”

“Don’t tell him that!” Cha-Cha hisses. “It’s classified!”

Five’s brows climb. “Hazel,” he repeats. “Hazel, who saved you…”

“Yeah.”

He pauses for a moment before turning to Cha-Cha and saying with a smirk that comes off as sarcastic, “Could you give us a minute?”

“No. We have to get going.”

“Come on, Cha-Cha, I’ll only be a sec,” you say. “Please?”

She works her jaw, unimpressed with your get-whatever-you-want look and voice. “Fine,” she states. “But it’s because I need a second for _myself_ before I get stuck with you the rest of my life, not because you’re pulling that shit.” She harshly gestures at your face, then strides several feet away to rest against the wall. She taps on her wrist to remind you that you can’t take forever.

“Dang,” you sigh. “Things just got a lot more complicated. I won’t be able to use that on her at all?”

 _“That’s_ what you’re worried about?” Five steps closer to you so he can lower his voice.

“Obviously,” you flatly say back. Five scoffs, then run fingers through his hair.

“Guess it makes sense,” he murmurs partly to himself. “Still. It’s Hazel. You can’t kill Hazel or his lady, who I’m guessing you’ll also have to off.”

You nod.

Five exhales and tries to put his words in order. When he can’t come up with something clever or snippy, you say to him, “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”

“You shouldn’t—” Five begins a little too hastily, but he corrects himself and starts over. “You shouldn’t be the killer between the two of us. It should be me. I’m already good at it because I’m a monster crafted by the Commission specifically for the job you’ve been assigned to do.”

He seems almost embarrassed to admit it, this concern. You try not to associate this kind of worry for the kind of worry he displayed in the car when you had to keep the sky from falling on top of you. Although, it _is_ personal in the sense that Five doesn’t want your morality turning into a brain-eating virus the more and more you’re commanded to kill. Neither does he want you to lose your integrity and self-worth because of what you’ll have to do.

Five doesn’t want you to turn out like him. A monster.

But you don’t see him as one, and no matter what you do, he and your family won’t see you as one.

Your brows scrunch. You’d hug him, but you don’t want to make a scene—or what Five _considers_ a scene. 

And how come it's so easy to still talk to him when you just had a big, emotional fight?

“Will you believe me if I said I was fine?” you instead ask.

“Depends on the inflection of your tone.”

“Well, Five, I’ll be fine,” you state plainly. “I...I’ll be finer than you think. I don’t mind killing. Sometimes, I, um, actually enjoy it.”

He frowns but faintly nods for you to continue.

“When Vanya and I visited Allison in LA right after she and Patrick filed for divorce, I learned that Allison had a stalker. He was threating to steal Claire away from Patrick to bring her back to Allison and make her happy, and if that didn’t make her happy, he would be very upset about it and possibly harm both her and her daughter. Allison wasn’t scared of him because she could take care of herself in a fight, but not being able to protect Claire in case it happened made her terrified. The police hadn’t done a single thing about the stalker or his threats, leaving Allison helpless.”

“Shit,” Five breathes.

“So, one night, I…went out. Then I came back to Allison’s house a few hours later telling her that the stalker wouldn’t be a problem anymore. I didn’t realize I had blood on my cheek until she pointed it out.”

You shrug a shoulder. “You’re not the only killer in the family. I’ve killed, too. I _liked_ killing that stalker, and I liked killing Leonard. To have that power over people who wanted to hurt my family, to watch them choke and gasp and fade…it felt good. I’ve murdered for our family without remorse, just like you killed to get back home. You didn’t enjoy it, and you’ll always have to live with it, but it was not without its end.”

Some of the worry smooths out of Five’s crinkled forehead, they don’t leave entirely.

“Yeah, but Hazel is not a stalker or a psycho boyfriend. You’ll have to either kill him and his lady or watch them be killed by Cha-Cha. Can you handle that?”

“I recognize the difference.” You smile at Five. “I won’t be affected, though.”

You drop your voice to a whisper and lean in to give Five’s shoulders a quick squeeze. “You’re not the only one who can plot, Mr. Five.”

He gives you an exasperated but trusting look. You mouth, “Bye,” to him and leave to meet up with Cha-Cha. Five turns on his heels to watch you stride away in your new Commission uniform.

You don’t glance back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6I27QOPsaoigwQPihvsIDt?si=tMO-w3nRTLmyLVEm1Fm62g)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)


	35. she'll be waiting in istanbul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Istanbul (Not Constantinople"](https://open.spotify.com/track/63vL5oxWrlvaJ0ayNaQnbX?si=X_ULj7e3QCSLKnBCrolwXg)

Kauai, Hawaii. 2003.

The hotel and car rental is, of course, shitty, but Cha-Cha doesn’t plan to stay long, so neither can you. The box waiting at the front desk has your names on it. Cha-Cha makes you take it because it’s heavy, and the two of you head to the room.

Cha-Cha takes off her blazer and turns on the rattling AC. “You need to go out and get us disguises to fit in. Nobody in Hawaii wears a full suit in this weather. You see how that lady at the front desk was staring at us?”

“To be fair, she might not have been having a very good day. Did you hear how the toilet overflowed in that one room?”

“You know what I mean, smartass.”

You take off your own jacket, even though you’re not bothered by the temperature and humidity. From orientation and the booklet, you know suits are mandatory to wear, but if a temporal assassin has been authorized in a certain case to dress for the appropriate location and time period, then a change is acceptable.

You do have a _little_ pride in yourself from remembering so much from orientation.

“Fine. Give me your sizes for shirt, pants, and shoes, and I’ll see what I can get with the money we have. Oh, wait, we don’t have any money.”

It really is horrendous how little per diem the Commission gives its employees. You’re saving that fact for later use and exploitation.

“Then be creative.”

Cha-Cha kicks her shoes off and starts going through the box. It’s filled with weapons. You take a peek in and say, “Save something for me, at least.”

“Depends on what you bring back.”

You snort but concede. It’s not hard finding tourist shopping outlets, and you easily steal clothes for yourself and Cha-Cha. You had to do what you what you had to do when you and Vanya were dirt broke. And besides, Vanya never asked where the food or clothes came from because she knew better. Nobody suspects a teen dressed as nicely or looking as innocent as you do. The trick is to grab some tote and pretend like you’re walking out with it like you’ve just bought something.

When Cha-Cha finds what shirt you’ve bought her, she stares at you and says, “I am not fucking wearing this thing.”

“Whaaaat? Come on, it’s neat!”

“It’s disgusting.”

“It’s a tropical-print shirt! Very touristy. You told me to get us something so we can blend in.”

“I didn’t mean pick the ugliest thing on the rack.”

“Cha-Cha, we’re in the early 2000s. It doesn’t get much better than this.”

You talk to her while you slap on your Hawaiian shirt and tuck it into high-waisted denim shorts that come down a couple inches above your knees. “We’ll _blend_ in because we’re dressed in the same ugly stuff as every other tourist on this island. And it’s hot! You’ll enjoy wearing something other than that suit.”

Because she can’t argue with your logic to the point of utterly refusing, Cha-Cha dresses in similar clothes as you, but she does so commenting how ugly the whole outfit is. She groans when she sees the dopey tourist sneakers you got her as well to complete the ensemble. You wear stylish Velcro sandals to mix things up a bit.

“You made us look like backup characters from _Magum, P.I.”_

“So what if I did? We look cool.” You pose in the motel room’s mirror. “Oh! Hey, almost forgot.”

You reach into the tote bag and pull out sunglasses and fanny packs. Cha-Cha snatches up the sunglasses, but she refuses to wear a fanny pack like you do. Yours has an embroidered sea turtle on it, and you stash a pack of gum, peanut M&Ms, and some throwing knives in it.

Cha-Cha packs heat tucked into her mom shorts. You don’t worry about taking anything else.

Before the two of you leave, you make an origami sea turtle and leave it on the motel table.

-

Kīlauea Point National Wildlife Refuge is a beautiful place that you enjoy despite being on an assassination mission. You and Cha-Cha head into the visitor center to get a pamphlet of all the trails Hazel and Agnes could possibly be on.

“I don’t understand why they’d be here in the first place,” Cha-Cha remarks while she skims through a pamphlet, sunglasses resting on her head. “Some rinky dink refuge?”

“Hazel told me that Agnes likes bird-watching,” you reply while you decide which trail would be the most likely one to check out. “It makes sense that there’d be a common pattern in their traveling, even though Hazel disabled the briefcase’s tracker and removed his own.”

“When he’d tell you that?”

“After he unburied me. Such a funny word, _unburied._ The act of reversing a burial.”

“Don’t care.”

The ring of a familiar jingle comes from the center’s bulky television sitting on the counter by the register. You turn to the screen and see a young Luther standing in the black Umbrella Academy hero outfit, promoting his action figure. It cuts to Diego throwing a knife into the bullseye of a target, then pans to his own action figure with a tiny (non-removable) knife in his hand. You remember a group of parents opposed having an action figure promote explicit violence with the knife, but it was short-lived.

A kid grins plasticly as she depicts your action figure punching through a small brick wall. There’s over-the-top sound effects as rubble goes flying in slow motion.

“That’s not accurate,” you say to Cha-Cha, who has also stopped to watch the ad. “If anything, Luther was the wall-punching one. I just took all the hits. But I suppose a kid’s toy commercial can’t depict my action figure being shot at or getting deep-fried in hot oil. It’s just not realistic—or safe.”

Cha-Cha snorts at the commercial and goes back to reading through the pamphlet. “My son always wanted toys like that, the fake ones that cost too much,” she says absently. “I could never afford them, though.”

You don’t say anything about the information you pocket.

As if the universe isn’t done throwing your past back into your face, the afternoon news comes on right when the commercial ends. A news anchor seriously stares into the screen while a smaller box floats beside their head. It’s a blurred but distinct photograph of seven kids standing proudly for reporters.

“This morning, the celebrated Umbrella Academy stopped a massive heist at the Art Institute of Chicago.”

The screen cuts to clips of you smiling and nodding with your family while reporters throw questions at you. The anchor drones on about the details of the heist. Dad stands closest to Luther, who has his shoulders thrown squarely back and wears a bright smile. He always looked the best for pictures and interviews. In order, Diego stands beside him, much more reserved but still focused. Allison has the most charm with her attentive grin. Klaus nods and smiles occasionally, but behind his back, you know he’s rolling a blunt just because he can, just because it’s bad and he’s bad and it’s fun. Five looks the most serious out of all of you, but that’s just the face he wears when he’s bored and doesn’t want to give it away. Ben, of course, just wants to go home. Blood smears right above his black collar, but it's not as bad as it was because you were the one standing in the bathroom with him cleaning up the rest of the blood from his face and suit with damp paper towels. His body leans more toward you rather than the reporters. You break Dad’s protocol by not having your hands clasped in front or behind you or down at your sides. One hand rests on Ben’s back while you smile for the cameras.

It’s odd seeing yourself and thinking, _That’s a child. All of you are children. None of you realize what is coming, the death and disappearance and despair. You are not marred by that just yet._

The news clip makes you both happy and bitter.

Because you look almost the same as you do on the television, you put your sunglasses back on for good measure.

Cha-Cha, realizing that her new partner was somewhat of a celebrity during this time and could possibly be recognized, jerks her head toward the door. “Come on.”

You nod and follow. Back outside, you start hiking up a trail to begin the search. You also notice that it’s not very busy despite the daylight hours. Good. You don’t need bystanders getting in the way of the approaching fight. Being dressed in black and masks and stopping heists taught you that much.

“Why _are_ we doing this during the day instead of night?” you ask Cha-Cha while you walk. Tropical birds croon overhead.

“While nighttime may provide more coverage, Hazel will be also be more on-guard and secure in whatever location he’s at. That’s where the other agents failed. They thought the cover of night would help them, but instead it only made them vulnerable. Catching him in a place where he thinks they’re safe from the Commission will give us an advantage.”

“Mm. Got it.” You gesture to the lighthouse in the distance. “I doubt they’ll be doing a tour of the lighthouse. Or that’s not the only place they’d go. If they want to bird watch, they’d gravitate to more secluded places.” You outline a smaller path to Cha-Cha with your finger. “I bet they’ll probably head up to Mokolea Point Trail.”

“…Yeah, okay.”

“Was that you agreeing? I’m flattered.”

“Have I told you to shut up today? Because I feel like I did.”

“You’ve told me to shut up for each individual scenario but not for the general day.”

“A shortcoming on my part,” Cha-Cha says dryly. You grin and start making your way to the trail.

-

About a half hour into the sweltering trek, you ask Cha-Cha, “Aren’t you glad I got you those shorts? I don’t feel the heat, but I _can_ feel that it’s supposed to be hot and humid.”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that about what? The temperature or the fact that you have some breathing room in your shorts?”

Cha-Cha makes an irritated noise, but before she can snap at you, she suddenly stops and puts a hand on your shoulder. The other snakes to the gun hidden behind her back.

You see who she stares at.

A lone couple with binoculars stand near the cliff overlooking Kīlauea Bay. You pick out Hazel’s distinct towering figure.

You inhale the ocean air and brace yourself.

With the binoculars, Hazel follows an albatross in the blue sky and shifts with its direction. It glides along the cliffside before turning inland, then dips down enough that he also glimpses the trail. When he spots people standing a few hundred feet away, the binoculars leave the flight of the albatross and double back to the trail.

That severe caramel cut with straight bangs gleams in the sunlight.

Haze’s entire body turns cold.

Cha-Cha whips out her gun and fires, but Hazel grabs Agnes and pushes her off the trail. They flee into the grove of ironwood trees rimming the path, disappearing from view. You start to move forward, then Cha-Cha grabs your arm.

“Agnes can’t run that long in such rough terrain,” she explains. “We need to conserve our energy and stalk instead of sprint. Hazel knows this, so he’ll try to take up a defensive position to at least protect Agnes. I doubt he even has a gun, though, otherwise he would have fired back already.”

You nod. “Got it.”

The two of you move farther up the trail and head into the ironwoods. It’s not difficult to follow where Hazel and Agnes ran; the disturbances they made in the earthy ground basically wave flags in the direction they went. The scent of trees and plants and soil fills your nostrils. You think that it wouldn’t be bad to die in such a nice, quiet place where the crash of the distant sea lulls you away.

But you’re not going to die here. Neither is Hazel or Agnes or Cha-Cha, much to their disappointment.

You just hope you’re not overestimating your abilities. You can’t afford to, and yet you can’t afford to underestimate them. This all has to be _precise._

A cropping of rocks in the midst of the trees and shrubbery doesn’t provide much coverage, but you and Cha-Cha silently agree that the tracks Hazel and Agnes left behind point exactly to the spot. Although it can't shield the couple well, it’s enough to hide them away for the moment.

Cha-Cha gestures for you to go left while she takes the right. You’ll both work your way around the cropping and meet back in the middle, cutting Hazel off from escape.

Just before you leave Cha-Cha’s side, however, a gunshot rips through the air. Birds take to the skies in fright.

Instinctively, you throw yourself in front of Cha-Cha’s body to shield her. A bullet bounces off your neck instead of piercing through Cha-Cha. You do feel a little guilty when you're more glad that your funky shirt didn't get a hole in it rather than Cha-Cha getting a hole in her. 

Well, there’s still time for _both_ of those things to happen, but you like to look for the positive in situations like these.

Her eyes widen like she’s surprised you so willingly kept her safe. She almost believed you would let her die if you got the chance, didn’t she? It’s not hard, though, to piece together that Cha-Cha has not been shown such kindness most of her life beyond the relationship she had with Hazel.

The corner of your lip twitches upward while the bullet falls to the rich ground.

 _“Shit,”_ Cha-Cha hisses, “he’s still packing heat.”

“Guess you don’t know your partner as well as you thought,” you say back. Cha-Cha squints at you in derision, so you throw her into the shrubbery for cover and then dive in the opposite direction.

More gunfire rings out, but it’s aimed at Cha-Cha. Hazel knows it’s fruitless to shoot at you, so if he takes Cha-Cha out first, he can then dedicate the rest of his time and energy to incapacitating you. It must be scary for him to have you on the opposite side of the fight again, except your roles are now reversed. Does he see the irony of it? You hope so. All of this _is_ very ironic, after all.

You make your way through the flora, keeping low to avoid being easily spotted. Cha-Cha returns gunfire, but you count her shots and can tell she’s trying to use them sparingly until you get to Hazel before she does. Cha-Cha wants his death to be up close and personal—anyone like her who has been betrayed like she has wants it.

The sandals you bought have a good grip on the rocks when you come to them. You crouch and peek around a rock. Hazel’s back is turned to you, and Agnes curls up with both hands over her ears.

Hazel fires a shot and pauses to reload. You spring into the dip of the rocks they take cover in.

Agnes sees you pop into view with your tropical shirt and denim shorts, an ominous but breezy harbinger. She screams. You leap into a sprint. Hazel automatically turns on you. He shoots you in the head, then curses at himself for making such a reactive move when he knows it will do nothing. The bullet ricochets off your cheekbone. Hazel barely has time to prepare himself when you slam into him. Just like old times.

You tackle Hazel, and he falls to the rocky ground with a grunt. He tries to wrestle you off him. You almost get thrown because of the size disparity between the two of you, but you bop him across the temple with a steel fist to disorient him. It does the trick. Hazel mostly collapses, and you have to ignore Agnes' pleas to let them both go in order to maintain an unbendable defense. With him incapacitated, you pick up his gun and wave it up in the air to show Cha-Cha you’ve got it.

She approaches through the brush without any stealth. You roll Hazel upright, gun to the back of his head, and whisper to him, “I have a plan. Or…kind of a plan—you just need to _trust me.”_

Hazel doesn’t respond, but neither does he make a move to attack you again in spite of his disadvantage, so you take it as a concession.

Cha-Cha steps onto the rock that’s level with your head and hops over it. She goes to Agnes and rips her from the ground. Agnes lets out another cry, hands gripping Cha-Cha’s wrist as fingers viciously twine through her graying blonde hair.

“Please, please don’t hurt her,” Hazel pleads. “This is between you and me. This has nothing to do with Agnes. Please, Cha-Cha.”

You note the wedding bands on their ring fingers, as well as the streaks of gray around Hazel’s temples. It makes you wonder how long they’ve been together, evading the Commission and living their best lives.

“You made it about this bitch when you left me at the mercy of the Commission for her,” Cha-Cha snaps back. She points the barrel of her gun to Agnes’ temple, whose eyes glisten and breaths come out ragged. “And guess what? Now you get to watch her fucking die because you couldn’t get your priorities in line, you motherfucker. _Don’t_ give me that look—this is all on you. Did you think you wouldn’t eventually be caught? That you wouldn’t be made to suffer?”

“We should make it look like some kind of accident,” you loosely counter. “The cliffs are nearby. Toss them off, don’t even have to worry about body removal or burial.”

Taking the walk would give you a bit more time to get your thoughts and plans in order. You need to make this work, and a dead Agnes would ruin everything.

“As good as watching their bodies break on the rock sounds,” Cha-Cha says, “I want to watch them die up close and personal. I want to watch _him_ break.”

Hazel starts to tremble, but he mouths, “It’ll be alright,” to Agnes. Cha-Cha wrenches her head back more for extra effect, and she smirks when Agnes lets out a pained cry.

You take a breath. Fuck.

"Alright, alright. Stop. Right now," you interrupt, voice clear but rapid. "Why don't the two of you listen to me instead, huh? Put a hold on all the murder, as difficult as that may sound to you." A hand lays over your chest. "I have an offer. Something I think you'll both like. But it means no killing anyone until I've finished speaking."

Cha-Cha scoffs at you. Of _course_ you have something else planned, you sneaky bitch. She knew it was too good to be true, and if you weren’t indestructible, she’d put a bullet through your skull just for interrupting her plans.

She fails to realize how little she thinks of you trying to put a stop to this, how little vitriol she actually holds toward you in spite of the blatant betrayal you present.

“Not interested,” Cha-Cha spits. She lets go of Agnes’ hair and aims the gun right to the back of her head. Your eyes widen.

Hazel screams, Agnes sobs, Cha-Cha fires the gun, and you surge forward not with your body but with another sense entirely.

Something…strange happens.

You do not want Agnes to die. You want to protect her.

In the seconds before Cha-Cha pulled the trigger, you sped through the contents of your memory to try and figure out _any_ way to make sure everyone lives through this. Moves, techniques, threats—anything and everything Dad taught you for hostage situations comes up short because Cha-Cha can’t be reasoned with in this exact moment, because you’re too far away, because Agnes cannot defend herself.

But you _do_ remember one theory.

You don’t intend for it to happen—you don’t know _how_ it happened. It just does through the force of your will and the desperation to keep Agnes’ brains from spattering on the rocks. There’s a spark, then a rush, and—

The instant before Cha-Cha’s bullet connects with Agnes’ skull, you _push_ your light out from you, directing it with purpose and haste. It hurts like a motherfucking bitch, all hot and burning and _singing._ But this kind of light does not float aimlessly. It surges into Agnes’ own song, her own soul, her own body, sinking and spreading through every cell of her skin.

The light doesn’t appear _between_ you and Agnes. One second, it surrounds you, and the next, it shines through Agnes, rippling and radiant.

There is the fire of the gun. Agnes falls forward. Hazel wails in agony. Cha-Cha curses and stumbles away. You slump to the ground.

Your light keeps tethered to you in some form, like a boomerang, like a magnetic pull even when it isn’t physically inside you. It retreats back to your body and snaps into place. You whimper because it stings and burns and _aches_ , but once it resettles back into your system, the hurt fades and stays gone.

You feel like your chest has been slammed with a hammer. You ignore it and prop yourself back upright to see if this insane, impossible transfer actually, actually worked.

Agnes looks like she’s about five seconds away from cardiac arrest, but she doesn’t have a hole in her head, so that’s good. Behind her, Cha-Cha clutches her face. Some blood seeps between her fingers. She must have got her own bullet bounced back to her from the graze she cups.

While you stagger to your feet, Agnes crawls to Hazel and falls into his arms. You push yourself off the rock you prop yourself up against and move to stand in front of them. The gun in your hand points at Cha-Cha.

“Did you…get it out of your system?” you ask through the cotton in your mouth.

“Undetermined,” Cha-Cha replies, though her eyes still scream murder. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

“Neither did I.”

You don’t have time to dissect what temporarily transferring your powers did to Agnes, but you glance at her and ask, “Do your insides feel like they’re exploding with heat? You don’t feel like you’re rupturing or being grilled?”

Shakily, Agnes replies, “I—I feel feverish, but…no. I don’t feel like I’m dying.”

“Tell me if there’s a change, and we’ll drop you into the ocean—from a safe height—to try and cool you.”

“I will.”

You motion for Cha-Cha to hand you her gun. Even though you get a scowl, Cha-Cha tosses over the weapon. You manage to catch it despite your lightheadedness. You’re a little sad the gun won’t fit in your fanny pack, so you tuck it in the back of your mom shorts.

Slumping against a nearby rock, you _do_ unzip your fanny pack and pull out the bag of peanut M&Ms you originally stashed. You toss them back to Cha-Cha in exchange. She deftly snatches the bag from the air.

“What, is chocolate supposed to make up for you betraying me, too?”

You shrug. “Kind of?”

Cha-Cha rips the bag open and starts eating them despite the blood on her fingers. With a lazy wave of her hand, she says, “Alright, you pitch whatever crazy shit you want before I finish eating these. Once I’m done, it’s back to business. I don’t want to stand around like a shithead wearing a Hawaiian shirt with the rest of you longer than I have to.”

In fact, Hazel and Agnes also wear tropical print shirts. Cha-Cha’s is red, yours is light blue, Agnes’ is pink, and Hazel’s is sage. You all look like a local Beach Boys cover band.

You tighten the fanny pack around your waist like you’re readying yourself for a plunge, then say, “The Commission is in the shit fields right now. It needs people who’ve been on the ground and understand what has to be fixed. You two are prime candidates for employees from every department to look to for leadership. And soon, there’s going to be a vacuum of power that quickly needs to be filled by capable people.”

Hazel wipes the sweat off his brow before he asks, “So, what? You want us to be part of a…revolution?”

You point at him. “Kind of. Along those lines. Yeah."

A silence sweeps through the rocks and trees and sky.

Cha-Cha crunches on another M&M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=398Ba4G2RiOH7iNSZs6HtA)   
>  [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)
> 
> And here's where I'll take another break!


	36. you better make up something quick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Barracuda"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4KfSdst7rW39C0sfhArdrz?si=tAMBy8zSSs6uL6RmtdBoIQ)

“Ah, Five Hargreeves, come in, come in!”

Five takes in the familiar surroundings of AJ Carmichael’s office, making sure to wear a somewhat smug expression to seem like he’s simply come to gloat.

“Never thought I’d be back here,” Five remarks, “but life can be a strange creature.”

“Indeed.” Carmichael gestures for Five to take a seat on the other side of his desk. “I must confess, I found chances of your return to be…slim.” He gesticulates exaggeratedly to compensate for his lack of actual limbs and a human face. Carmichael swims around in his bowl in a clipped, precise way as he continues. “But! It is wonderful to see you’ve made amends with the Commission and decided to contribute to preserving this timeline we hold so dear. Congratulations on your new position, by the way.”

Carmichael pulls out a cigarette case and offers one to Five. When Five declines, he takes one for himself and lights it. “And I am _very_ excited to see what Eight Hargreeves will do for this organization. I have high hopes that she will live up to the family name.”

Because Five doesn’t want to give himself away by bristling at the mention of your name and occupation, he directs all his reactive energy to the smirk he wears. It grows but appears to be more smugness and natural disdain toward Carmichael.

He takes a drawl of the cigarette at the bottom of his stupid fucking fish tank head. Five _swears_ that the act of smoking and actually being affected by it is all pretend, and once he has the chance to smash the glass with his foot, he’s going to find out for himself.

Carmichael absently waves the cigarette and relaxes into his high-back velvet armchair. “Of course, since you were under my supervision during your time as a temporal assassin, it is only expected that I begin paperwork to get Eight and Cha-Cha transferred to my division. After all, I have much better _experience_ with the Hargreeves than the Handler, which was made painfully obvious with all the mess prior to your return.”

Five’s head tilts and his eye twitches, but he maintains his smirk. To think of Carmichael controlling you in any shape or form makes him want to launch right over the desk and shatter that fishbowl of a head right here and now.

But he hangs onto his disgust, his vitriol. Letting it ferment will only increase its potency when the time is right.

Standing, Five says, “I won’t take up too much of your time. Just wanted to see an _old acquaintance.”_

Carmichael pleasantly chuckles, but his fishtail swipes in contrast to it. So, he still feels animosity toward Five. Good.

“Well, I’m flattered you thought of me in this big place. It will be exciting to see where everything goes with you in case management and Eight as an assassin.”

“I’m excited as well.” Five pauses, pretends to contemplate his words before he says them, then ultimately goes with, “I did hear something…strange, though.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“You say that the Handler botched the job, but word around the office is that she’s up for a promotion because she was the one who got me back and snagged Eight—who, let’s face it, is the most indestructible agent ever.” Helpfully, Five adds with a quirk of his brows, “It was all over the cafeteria today.”

The laugh that comes from Carmichael is a little too tight. He draws in a longer smoke from his cigarette. “Ah, I see. The Handler possesses admirable capabilities. It is not surprising that she would earn a promotion. And she—deserves it.”

Alright, well that’s practically a scream about how much Carmichael hates her.

“I, I beg your pardon, Five, but when did you hear this, exactly?”

“Oh, just for the past couple of days,” Five lies.

“Wonderful. Wonderful.”

“You…haven’t heard about this?”

“I am afraid not. But I’ve been so busy with restructuring the Commission’s finances that it must have slipped by me! Ha!”

Five’s smile no longer becomes fake. He excuses himself to get back to work, and as he walks out of the office, he feels young again. Young and rebellious and accomplished.

The moment the door to Carmichael’s office closes behind him, Five hears the sound of a fist angrily pounding against a desk.

Nobody is around to see him let out a small, breathy laugh.

The high of pissing Carmichael off and furthering his goals fade, however, as Five settles back into his desk, which is at the center of the most boring place in any reality. Never mind the fact that he’s learned the name of his nearest desk mates, or that he often has lunch with them, _or_ that he kind of likes it when they all gather around his desk to listen to stories about his time as an assassin or as part of the Umbrella Academy. Never mind any of that.

Dot, who sits behind him, and Herb, who sits across form him on the left, have returned from the lunch that Five left early to speak with Carmichael. They had already met you on the first day of joining the Commission, and in their own words, you were so very nice and polite. It doesn’t surprise him. You’re nice to everybody.

“I brought you back some baklava they had in the cafeteria,” Dot says with that ever-present smile on her face. She places the neatly-wrapped dessert on his desk.

“Thank you.”

“Better savor it while you can,” Herb mentions in a somewhat sour aside while he settles into his desk. Dot shushes him quickly, then glances around to make sure nobody heard his comment.

“What do you mean?” Five asks. He unwraps the napkin and pops a piece of baklava into his mouth, then moves his gaze between Dot and Herb. Both of them look very scandalized, but a moment later, they simultaneously lean in to gossip with Five.

“Apparently,” Dot whispers, “Carmichael cut more of our insurance coverage to, to—”

“ _Ludicrous_ points,” Herb puts, and Dot nods.

“And he laid employees off, but mostly the lower-level workers whose job it is to keep this establishment running smoothly. That includes the cafeteria and janitorial staff.”

“So expect the bathrooms and offices to not be cleaned,” Herb sighs with a frustrated shake of his head. “ _And_ no more baklava days.”

“That’s terrible,” Five says after he swallows the dessert. “You know…” He raises his voice just a smidge for the other employees who eavesdrop on the conversation. They don’t do it maliciously, though, and Five doubts there are any snitches who work for the Handler, Carmichael, or other board members. Case management is its own humble but powerful force.

Which is why they’re key.

“Now we’ll have to work in an unsanitary work environment. Not to mention the danger to food safety protocols with less staff.”

Five finishes the baklava, wipes his fingers on the napkin, then shrugs and gets back to work. “It’s a damn shame,” he says.

Herb and Dot hum in agreement.

It’s like tossing another pebble into the pond.

-

On May 23, 2003, Grace Hargreeves opens the door to the Umbrella Academy mansion with a pleasant smile. She has been programmed to open the door to a specific knock only family members or invited guests are privy to in order to keep away unwanted guests, fans, and paparazzi.

She does not recognize the people before her.

“Hello, there!” she chimes with a pearly smile. “Come in, please, and welcome.”

They hesitantly enter the foyer. Grace closes the door behind her. Clasping her hands in front of her, she says, “I apologize, but I am unaware of the business you have with Sir Hargreeves. May you state it so I can inform him of your arrival?”

“No need, Grace.”

She turns toward the sound of a cane tapping against the floor. “These people are uninvited troublemakers. Although, I am curious as to how you came upon the knowledge of that particular knock, so before you are escorted off the premises, you shall tell me this information.”

Reginald Hargreeves, equal parts curious and defensive, stops and stands beside Grace, cane promptly held in front of him. After taking in their every facial twitch, their every muscle movement, his gaze falls down to the briefcase in the man’s grip. His shoulders become staunch. He is not a man who is in danger, however; he is a man who _is_ the danger, and the unwelcome guests see this.

“You shall state your business before you find yourselves being cleaned off the floor by Grace.”

At the mention of her name, Grace smiles prettily.

“Hazel. My name is Hazel. This is Agnes.”

You and your family had to be _raised_ by this man? Jesus. He had only skimmed the book your sister wrote, so he didn’t have many details about your life growing up, but this Reginald Hargreeves seems to exist solely through the energy of intimidation.

Agnes gives a little wave, but she partly hides behind Hazel to shield herself from Reginald Hargreeves’ gaze.

“We’ve come with a letter explaining our presence,” Hazel continues. His had hovers to the inside of his blazer, which seems to be hastily thrown over a tacky Hawaiian shirt. “May I?”

Reginald nods once. Hazel reaches into the blazer and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He holds it out to Reginald, who crisply takes it.

Before Reginald unfolds the letter, he warily eyes the two people, but they seem to be of little threat. The man would obviously be a problem should he decide to attack, though he acts sincere about his intentions.

Deciding that this is satisfactory, Reginald scans the letter. The paper seems to be torn from some hotel notepad, and Reginald notes its address. Hawaii. That explains their apparel, then. What is more interesting, however, is the actual contents that have been hurriedly scrawled on the paper. In handwriting he immediately recognizes, he reads:

_Dad,_

_It’s Eight, but it’s Eight from the future. The family and I are trying to stop an apocalypse and get the Temps Commission off our backs at the same time. Protect Hazel and Agnes with your cloaking machine specifically made to counter the Commission’s system (yes, I know about it) for two days. We should have everything sorted out by then. Hazel will play a large part in changing the course of the Commission’s agenda and organization, and in turn, the course of their planned doomsday. The game we play is a game of chess, except we play it from the center of the board outward instead of two opposite sides, trying to defeat the Commission from within._

_I have never asked anything of you in my life. I do not ask as a child. I ask as a person trying to save the world._

_And please, do not let my younger self see either of them. I have no recollection of their faces as a child. I don’t want to corrupt the timeline that we belong in, though this letter alone puts it at risk. I’ll risk the timeline, however, to stop the apocalypse. I hope you do as well._

_Signed,  
Eight Hargreeves_

Once Reginald finishes reading the letter, he refolds it and tucks the paper into his suit. Turning to Grace, he says, “Prepare a room for Hazel and Agnes in the farthest wing away from the children. Hurry!”

Agnes riles at the voice he uses to speak to Grace, but Grace only nods with the same smile still plastered to her face.

Reginald goes to turn away, but he pauses and stares directly at Hazel. “I shall remind you, sir, that if you are not gone in two days or less, you will be removed, and you shall face your fate alone, whatever it may be.”

It’s starting to make sense to Hazel why your family has so many…hang ups.

Still, he supposes you all could have turned out worse.

They probably have you to thank for that.

-

A few blocks away from the mansion where two time travelers take refuge under the roof of the Umbrella Academy manor, in the depths of a pitch-black mausoleum, Klaus Hargreeves cries. He shouldn’t still be crying. He’s been thrown into this fucking place more times than he can count throughout his miserable life, and still, _and still,_ he can’t do what Dad wants. He can’t do what he wants, either, which is to tear through the stone door locking him in, run, and never look back.

But he is the great disappointment, even to himself.

When a pounding comes from the other side of the door, Klaus curls up against the stone, gasping in stale, cold air, whispering and pleading for them to leave him alone even though they won’t. He wants to claw his entire brain out, out, fucking _out—_

The door opens, and the spring light that spills in causes him to squint. Klaus expects Dad’s harsh voice to hit him despite the fact that the old man came this morning to see what progress—or no progress—he had made. He shouldn’t have returned for at least another day, and even though Klaus loses track of time here in the endless death-void, he can tell that it’s still too soon.

The silhouette standing at the entrance takes shape the more his vision adjusts. Once Klaus realizes just who it is, he lets out a ragged, weeping breath.

“I’m _supposed_ to be reciting Ancient Greek with Ben, but I promised him I’d get him donuts if he covered for me while I went on a _secret mission_ to save you.”

Light shines across your skin. It illuminates the darkness of the crypt, chasing away the screams and pleas that ring in Klaus’ ears. You smile at him before you rush down the steps and gather him up in your arms.

“You’re…not supposed to be here,” Klaus whispers to you, voice muffled in your shoulder.

“I’m aware.”

You let go and, taking Klaus’ hand, quickly lead him out of the mausoleum. “Now,” you explain as you quickly close the heavy door and lock it with an old iron key, “You’re going to have to go back in there sometime, but until then—”

“Wait, where’d you get that key?”

“I took it off the key hook.”

“Dad doesn’t put keys on the key hook.”

“He doesn’t put the _car_ key on the key hook, thanks to you, but other keys still hang there.”

_“Quelle surprise!”_

“Anyway, I have…” You check the dainty watch on your wrist. “Three hours until dinner. Then I have to get back.”

“Until then?” Klaus prods, picking up your sentence he initially interrupted.

“Until then, we’re going to pretend like we’re normal.” You smirk and whip around so Klaus can see your stuffed backpack. “Come on. The day is nice, I made sandwiches, and I brought a blanket.”

“What, are we gonna have a picnic in a cemetery?”

“No. There’s a park a few blocks from here.”

“Oh, well, then, madame, lead the way.” Klaus bows as he walks, hand extended outward. You chuckle and sling your arm around his shoulder. He breathes in the fresh air while the two of you walk through the cemetery.

“And when you have to go back in there, I brought something to help you.”

You pull your backpack to your front and dig into the largest pocket. You make a triumphant trumpet noise when you take out some sturdy headphones.

Klaus gasps and grabs them. “Where did you get these?” he happily exclaims.

You shrug with some feigned smugness. “My network.”

Eightie’s Network( as you dubbed it) just means the family, but Klaus doesn’t care. He grins and plants a kiss on top of your warm head. You laugh.

“Have I ever told you you’re my favorite sibling?”

“No, but you shouldn’t pick favorites.”

“Eh. Too late.”

There’s only one real hero in this family, and she’s talking about how great today’s sunlight would look like through the window of a damn mid-century modern home.

-

In his study, Reginald rereads the letter three more times. Once he has memorized the message, the subtle changes in your handwriting, and the succinct and straightforward tone, he folds it once more. He initially begins to put the letter in the box where his journal and other observations reside, given its importance, but he hesitates. No. It does not belong there.

Reginald walks to his Shakespeare section and pulls _Caesar_ from the shelf. He glimpses, _Et tu, Brute?_ Before he places the folded letter on top of the page. He then promptly shuts the book and slides it back to its rightful place amid the collection.

Yes. Much more appropriate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=ULYz-obrQSaf-16p7Us8GQ)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)


	37. two can be as bad as one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["One"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4KkGTqja19AHqItq3XBV3C?si=G6tIqWTRR7yrcPF9wJbFbg)

“I’m telling you, _stop_ freaking out, or that little titanium body of yours is gonna explode shrapnel everywhere.”

“I can’t, I can’t, what if I mess up the timeline and we gave everything away—”

“You know, for someone who was so confident just a couple hours ago, you sure are spiraling.”

“Of _course_ I’m spiraling.”

“Oh my god—look.” Cha-Cha stops you right outside the observatory. She grimaces at your spasming eye from the side effects of the pocket dimension. “One, you’re stupid suspicious right now, so knock it off. Two—and I _cannot_ believe I’m saying this—chances are, you probably didn’t knock us all into a whole different timeline.”

“But how do you _know?”_

“I don’t, but you think we’d be waltzing right back into the Commission if we got caught because of a disturbance on the Infinite Switchboard?”

“There could be a trap on the inside. The Handler might just offer us tea and it’ll be poisoned and we’d die and Five would go back to a different timeline.”

Cha-Cha pauses, which causes you to let out a high-pitched whine. “Okay, that could be true, I’ll be honest. I _highly_ doubt it, though. And besides, you started this, so now you gotta face whatever consequences come, good _or_ bad.”

You sigh but say after, “You’re right. You’re right. Sorry. I’ll try to calm down.”

“Never thought I’d hear you admit that.”

“I never had the right opportunity beforehand.”

“Fuck you.”

The Hander does not, in fact, poison either of you. At least not yet. She gives you a brimming, predatory smile while she commends your work. Hazel and Agnes Rofa are no more, wiped off the face of the earth. She also says it was a very creative choice for you and Cha-Cha to throw them off the very cliffside they visited. What a shame, though, that the briefcase Hazel stole didn’t make it back into the hands of the Commission.

But oh well! The Handler’s mess has been officially cleaned up, and she doesn’t fail to mention how this will get her a special, _exemplary_ review by the board.

You nod along, smiling as you do, until you’re finally dismissed.

“Our payments should reach our account shortly,” Cha-Cha tells you while you head down to the filing department.

“Wonderful.”

The rows and rows of filing cabinets in the lowest (supposed) level of the Commission sprawls before you like an endless sea of greige. “Whoa,” you utter. “This place is…big.”

“You think?”

You both take forms for the report and sit down at one of the desks to fill them out. A supervisor for the floor is dead asleep in his chair, and his snores echo in the cavernous room. It could possibly be a front, but you don’t think anybody could fake those occasional twitches.

“So, they keep everything here? All documents?” you inquire while you begin to write.

“Uh huh. Why, you planning something else already?”

“Not…necessarily planning.” You eyeball the supervisor and the other scattered agents also doing reports. “Just digging.”

“Keep me out of it. I don’t need _another_ thing to worry about around here.”

“Aw, you love it,” you snicker, ducking your head down close to the paper. The pen you write with doesn’t have much ink left, so you have to press extra hard to get it to write. “If you didn’t have faith in what we’re doing, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Would you shut up?” Cha-Cha goes silent for a moment, then leans in close to you and hisses, “And the _only_ reason I’m going along with this shit plan is because I’ll die anyway if I don’t since _both_ partners that I’ve had are apparently unhinged rogues.”

“Okay,” you smirk.

Cha-Cha impulsively stabs your hand with a pen, which promptly snaps in half. Ink begins to pool everywhere. She curses.

You look back up at Cha-Cha, still smirking, and say, “I’m excited, too.”

-

When you reach the case management office Five works in, you first hear floating laughter.

Peeking your head in, you see people’s attention on the desk situated in the center aisle of the room. A surprised smile encompasses your face, and fond happiness bubbles up in your chest.

Five is seated casually in his chair, tossing a rubber band ball up and down while he talks about some famous job he did as an assassin. He has the other employees in the room enraptured, so you think it’s best to let him finish the story without interrupting. Five seems to be enjoying it, too. You’re sure this does _nothing_ to help his ego, except you can tell when he’s acting or when he’s being sincere, and right now, he has no front. He likes talking to these people. Good.

The tale is actually quite the woven drama, full of intrigue and espionage and dancing around KGB and CIA at the same time—including some _literal_ dancing with Nancy Reagan, who, according to Five, knew how to do the Viennese waltz much better than she let on.

You put a finger to your lips to suppress a snort. Five fails to mention how his own dancing skills compared. Did Nancy Reagan get her feet stepped on by him as well?

Herb spots you lurking in the doorway first once the story reached its conclusion about the French ambassador’s son being found dead in nothing but his tighty-whities in the hotel’s service elevator. He waves in his cute Herb way, which snaps Five’s attention to you.

You wave back and entreat farther into the room. Chitter chatter murmurs throughout the office for a second, but it quickly dies down.

“Hello, Eight!” Dot chimes. “Back from your first mission, huh? Heard it was a success!”

“Hi, Dot. Yes, I am, and yes, it was. I like your glasses, by the way. Did you change them from the last ones you wore?”

Her grin turns bashful. “Yes, they are different,” Dot replies with a pep in her shoulders. “Thank you for noticing.”

“Hey, can I actually steal Five away for a bit?” You tuck your hands into your pockets.

The managerial head of the office, who is just as enamored by Five, says of course.

He jumps to you out in the hallway, and the first thing you take in is his smirk.

“So, you survived your first assassination.”

“Mm. Something like that.”

“How’s Cha-Cha? Did she try to kill you in your sleep yet?”

“Well, she does _not_ appreciate my fashion sense as much as she should, but she hasn’t tried to drown me in a toilet bowl.” You hold up a hand stained with ink. “Impulsive attacks aside.”

Five’s smirk turns fond. “It’s good to see you again, Eightie.”

“It’s good to see you, too. And you finally got a new suit! That’s great.”

“It’s not my style,” he admits while he spreads his arms a bit to showcase the outfit to you. The suit follows along with case management dress code, but his shoes shine more than what is required, and he wears a subtle but tasteful tie clip. “But it works for now.”

You lean against the wall and cross your arms. “I leave for six days, and I come back and you’ve made all sorts of friends.” Lowering your voice, you add, “Doesn’t it feel nice?”

Five rolls his eyes. “It’s called _gathering intel.”_

“It’s called _having a nice time._ You can admit it, that’s alright, I won’t judge you. I’m glad that after almost sixty years, you’re finally making friends on the playground.”

“Hey, shut up, alright?”

You laugh at Five’s knee-jerk defensive reaction, which causes him to press his tongue to the side of his cheek from showing a grin. Once it settles back into a dry smirk, he tilts his chin toward you.

Giving you a once-over, he asks, “You good?”

“Yeah. I’m good.”

Better than you were nearly a week ago. Better because you fucked around and didn’t do what you were assigned to do—and right now, got away with it.

Five sees the truth in the corner of your lip, the twitch in your brow.

He doesn’t ask further about the mission for fear of being overheard or spied on, but he can definitely tell that you did not kill Hazel. More impossibly, you _somehow_ came back with Cha-Cha beside you.

“How have you been adjusting?” you say.

“It hasn’t been too bad…I suppose.”

Like with you, you don’t need Five to state his own machinations to see that he has stuff already in the works. You see it in the squint of his eye, the tweak in his nose.

He tilts his chin. “Before you head off to your next assignment, meet me at the compound after I get off work. It’s unit 274.”

“Got it.”

You turn to go, but you pause and glance back at Five.

“Missed you,” you say.

You get a small, wry smile in response. “Yeah. Missed you too.”

With a smirk, you backtrack and call, “Oh, wow, you actually didn’t act like saying that hurt you.”

“Watch it.”

-

“Ugh. I gotta get this Hawaiian stink off me.”

“I think that’s the smell of the ocean.”

“Does the ocean smell like sweat?”

Your laugh echoes in the shower stall you stand in. Hot water rolls off you, and steam rises up to the ceiling.

“Don’t throw away that shirt at least. I picked it out with your personality in mind.”

“You picked it out because you thought it was ugly in a funny way, _then_ forced me to wear it.”

The dollop of shampoo you squeeze into your palm could be capable of burning your hair away if your strands weren’t abnormally resilient. You start to scrub it in your scalp. In the next stall, Cha-Cha mutters, “Damn shampoo.”

“We’ll need to treat ourselves,” you comment as you rinse. “Maybe have a spa day sometime.”

“Excuse me? Do you remember what your paycheck for this job looked like? And it was a special one. The others aren’t gonna look any prettier.”

“It’s just nice to dream.”

You note the strange sensation you get when you speak about the act of dreaming.

Wrapped up in towels after the shower, you watch Cha-Cha secure her wig back on after her hair has dried. She cusses you out when she hears that you don’t need lotion, and she calls you a gray blob of annoyance when you dress in exercise sweats and a sweater—even though she wears the exact same outfit.

You think your partnership with her is coming along very well.

With your suits and accompanying clothes being cleaned, Cha-Cha takes you out to the target range for practice.

“Target practice,” you find, isn’t necessarily just a gun range. It’s more of a free-for-all to fight and test weaponry. Cha-Cha channels her not-so-pent-up anger by throwing knives at incredible distances. You try your hand at javelin throwing, and you find satisfaction in the javelin hitting the target with nice precision.

The sound of distant gunfire and explosions from other agents doing target practice—or _being_ target practice—covers up your conversation with her.

“We’ll have another assignment soon,” Cha-Cha says. “This one will most likely mean that we’ll _stay_ on the ground for a while before we can get back to headquarters. Returning after every mission isn’t normal. Usually, we get assignments through the tube. Once one is complete, then another pops into our lives.”

“How long do you stay in the field?”

Cha-Cha hurls a knife at the target dummy. It _thumps_ right between the dummy’s legs. You mutter, “Nice.”

“Depends. Can be a couple weeks. Can be a few months. And from the looks of things here…” The knife between Cha-Cha’s fingers twirls. “It’s probably gonna be a few months.”

“Fantastic.”

“Luckily, the annual gala is coming up. If we stay on the ground long enough, we’ll be called back for it eventually.”

You pause and turn to her, leaning on the javelin. “Gala? The Commission has a gala?”

Rolling her eyes at the mention of the gala rather than you, Cha-Cha says, “It’s a bureaucratic, bullshit event to _thank_ the employees for all our hard work. Awards, speeches, bad slideshows set to even worse music…”

“Everything you hate.”

“Exactly.”

“How is this thing even being cobbled together? With all the budget cuts happening, I’d think that some dinky awards ceremony would be the first to go.”

Cha-Cha shrugs. “The higher-ups always find a way to put on a show even when their employees’ paychecks are being cut for the very party.”

She then lowers her voice and points the throwing knife at you. A potent explosion rings in the distance. “And I’m sure Five is using that very fact for something shitbrained.”

“Mm. Probably. I would, too. Hey, does this mean we need to dress nice? I love dressing up. I don’t get to do it often.”

 _“No._ Now go stand over there and run around so I can throw knives at a moving target.”

“Okay.”

Two minutes later, Cha-Cha yells, “Don’t _dodge_ them, you asshole!”

-

After enough time has passed for your clothing to be washed and dried, you and your partner head back to the main building. You idly check out the few tiny nicks on your gray cotton sweatsuit. “Don’t feel too bad about it. You’re still great.”

“I don’t feel bad. Shut up.”

“I grew up with Diego. His whole thing is throwing knives.”

“I said I don’t feel bad.”

“Your tone implies otherwise.”

Cha-Cha goes to snap at you, but your attention draws to the side of the neat gravel path, and you slow. You watch three blond men fight a horde of black-clad trainers. Their styles are cohesive and brutal—they’ve been doing this together their entire lives. It’s not hard to tell that they’re brothers.

You wonder if this is what it looks like when you fight side-by-side with your own siblings. A pang of immense sorrow wells in your chest, so much that you have to take a breath to stifle the pain that may come with it.

Does your family miss you? Or has not enough time passed for them to even begin to feel that yawning gap? Are they safe? Are they well?

The stark memory of Ben’s kind, ethereal face makes you want to rip your entire heart out before it can hurt you.

Cha-Cha’s disgusted noise brings you out from the sinking dark.

“The Swedes,” she spits. “European freaks. Some of Carmichael’s best agents.”

Once the youngest of the brothers takes the last agent down, the Swedes all straighten and stop to stare at Cha-Cha and you. They don’t make any motion to greet—or threat. They just stand there silently, and, well, you suppose that’s probably a threat all on its own. Beside you, Cha-Cha crosses her arms. You don’t have to look at her to know she wears a small but prominent scowl.

You’re not sure what to do in this visual showdown.

So, you wave at them with a friendly smile.

The gesture throws off the Swedes. It throws off Cha-Cha, too, and she pushes you forward to keep walking again.

“They’re the competition, you know,” she remarks, like you have no idea where you are and what you’re doing and who you’re surrounded by. The connotation in her statement also says that they’re potential enemies as well. “You shouldn’t be all nice to them.”

“It never hurts to be nice to people,” you say back. “Sometimes, being nice can set off so much that it changes a person’s course of character.”

“Whatever.”

After you’re dressed back in your dark blue suit, the end of day bell rings. Cha-Cha tells you she’s going to get some sleep in the barracks. Whatever _you’re_ planning to do, she adds, is none of her business since she’s officially off the clock.

You both agree on meeting outside the front doors of headquarters. Then, parting from Cha-Cha, you start to wander around until you find the hourly workers’ living arrangements. Those who don’t have a life to get back to outside of the time bubble stay on Commission campus. You think they’re like university dorms, except much worse.

Neat rows of cubic-like dwellings form symmetric rows across the campus’ dark green grass, and the gray, never-light, never-dark sky hangs above them. The paths maintain their orderliness just like everything else here, and if you had less of a grip on reality, you’d think you were in some sort of purgatory or mind prison.

One villain tried to trap in you in a mind prison with the rest of your family, once. Your skull was too thick for his brain-wave thingies to penetrate, though, so you kicked him in the balls.

You reach Five’s boxy apartment. The plaque on the door reads _F. Hargreeves._

With the same knock you taught Hazel to do when he and Agnes reached Dad’s mansion, you rap on the door. There’s some light scuffling on the other side, and a moment later, Five opens it.

He’s still dressed in his work clothes, but his tie is loosened around his neck, he has his shoes off, and his sleeves are rolled back.

“You look like a tired traveling salesman,” you say as you step in. You note that his work and academy shoes sit side-by-side near the door.

“Yeah, hello, you look like a real dick yourself.”

You laugh and shed your own jacket to hang it beside Five’s. He closes the door behind him, and you also loosen the knot of your own tie.

The apartment doesn’t have much space, but at least it’s not a studio. Without permission, you head over to the tiny bedroom to check it out. “Oh, sure, go right on ahead,” he sighs sarcastically. “Take the tour.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Five’s bedroom has one lonely little twin bed pressed up against the corner, and the blanket is immaculately pulled so taut that there’s not a crease to be seen. Underneath the bed, you spot some drawers built into the bed frame. The only other visible objects in the room are in the closet, where Five’s academy uniform and an extra suit hang.

You head to the bathroom, which is adjacent to the bedroom. It’s cramped as well. One toothbrush sits preciously in its cup on the sink. You go through the medicine cabinet and spot toothpaste, deodorant, pomade, and a razor.

Plucking up the razor, you hold it up between you and Five, who followed behind you and now leans against the doorframe. “Have you actually…used this?” you ask politely.

He snatches it from your grasp, and you laugh. “It’s for when I _do_ need it,” Five corrects snippily. “Are you done? Or do you need to do a thread count on my towels? Because I’ll just tell you now—it’s shit.”

“Alright, I’m done. Nice place you got here, though.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

Five realizes that you’ve lied when you head to the kitchen and begin going through the cupboards and drawers. This time, however, he braces for your deadpan look after you see that the fridge is virtually bare, save for some beer, eggs, and a block of industrial cheese. One section of the cupboards is filled only with canned food. You make a small, disappointed noise.

“Oh my god,” you mutter at him.

“What? I don’t have _time_ to make myself a fancy meal like you would!” Five defends.

“Do you even _have_ any vegetables? Fruit? Anything healthy?”

“…I think there’s some canned green beans and pears on one of the shelves.”

You shake your head. “I can’t believe you,” you dryly chuckle. “I would have thought that you’d be sick of canned food since you ate so much of it in the apocalypse.”

“It’s familiar,” he replies, fidgeting with his tie. Five never did like being in the hot seat when he knew he was doing something he shouldn’t have been. “And—hey, at least it’s not expired. Besides, I can’t be bothered with cooking, seeing as it just wastes my time.”

Because this child-man cannot (or refuses) to take care of himself, you say, “I’ll cook, then. I’m going to starve otherwise.”

Five, halfway down into the armchair, pauses. “I—would have made something,” he argues unconvincingly. You make your opinion apparent on your face, so he waves you off. “Fine. Do what you want.”

You put on the Commission apron with the phrase “The Timeline Is Your Lifeline” printed in cursive on the front. It doesn’t take much searching to find a pot because Five literally owns nothing. You fill it with water and start the stove to bring it to a boil. While it simmers, you pull out spaghetti, a couple cans of chili, and the block of cheese from the fridge.

Since Five needs veggies (you worry about how much he is or isn’t growing in his young body again), you find the can of green beans he touted about earlier.

“This is really looking like a young Vanya and Eight kind of meal,” you say with a snort. Five wanders back over to the kitchen area to watch you cook. He leans against the counter dividing the living from the kitchen to watch you work your magic.

“I’m excited to eat such a gourmet meal,” he smirks while he watches the chili heat up. You catch him doing it and point to the pot.

“Did you know that you can actually heat up the stuff you eat?”

“How many times have I said this, Eight? You’re shit at sarcasm.”

“Says the guy who lives off this stuff. Jeez, Five, do you even go poop? Wouldn’t this make you constipated?”

“God, Eight!”

“What? It’s normal to talk about poop.”

“You’re lucky I’ve checked this house every night for bugs. Now the Commission won’t hear what we’re talking about—but we’re _not_ talking about that.”

“Poop?”

You hold up the chili spoon and let it drop back down into the pot for good measure. Five scrunches his face up in disgust and groans.

“You look like a child _and_ act like a child,” he says with blustery bite.

“At least I can cook for myself.”

“Hey, I _can—_ okay, you know what?” He runs fingers through his hair to compose himself. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You only grin to agree.

“We need to go over actual important stuff.” Five sits on a stool tucked underneath the counter. Clasping his hands together, he asks, “What went down with Hazel and Agnes Rofa?”

By the time you get done talking about the “Hawaiian job,” as it’s dubbed, you drain the spaghetti and turn off all the stove burners. Five grabs two plates, two forks, and two beers.

“I don’t trust Cha-Cha being involved,” he says. “We’ll have to keep an eye on her. But so far, it sounds like what we’re trying to do matches her self-interest.”

“Did you know she had a son?” you ask.

Five’s brows furrow. “No,” he replies. “I didn’t. Commission agents aren’t ones to share their personal stories. I’ll look into it when I can.”

You dish pasta onto the plates, then spoon the heated chili on top of them. “I also can’t believe that dear old Dad is involved with all of this,” Five goes on. “It makes sense, though. Of course he would be.”

“I’m still afraid that I messed up the timeline asking for his help,” you say.

“Ah, I haven’t picked up any irregularities that need to be fixed, and I don’t think anybody else has either. Besides, with the cloaker, they should be protected from the Commission for a little while.”

You pile green beans onto the plates and top the chili with grated cheese to finish. Part of you considered telling Five about your expanded powers, but you decide to keep it to yourself for now. It'd only serve as a distraction from primary topics.

Five takes a bite of the food. You watch for his reaction. He briefly hums while he chews, and after he swallows, he says, “Not bad. Not healthy, but not bad.”

“Right?” You stab at your green beans until they stack onto the fork’s prongs. “Now, tell me about what you’ve been doing, Mr. Hargreeves.”

“Oh, I’ve just been sprinkling lots of this and that into everything over the past six days,” he replies. The smug expression grows. “Rumors and stuff. It helps that all the shit happening is being juxtaposed by the stupid fucking gala. Let me know what you see tomorrow when you go into the headquarters before you leave. If you get the chance, that is.”

“Okay. I better pick something pretty to wear at one of the places Cha-Cha and I jump to.”

“Pick up something for me as well.”

“I will.” Your own smug expression climbs up your face. “I wanna know more about you getting along with all the case management employees.”

He scoffs and takes a drink of beer. “I’m _playing the part_ to get them to aid in my—our—cause. That’s all.”

You smirk because you know Five is exaggerating. He just can’t admit that he actually enjoys interacting with people like a normal human being.

But because you don’t want to give Five too hard of a time, you take a small sip of beer and continue conniving.

Neither of you address what happened between you and the family. The suicide attempt is _not_ for conversing. Five hears the restriction loud and clear, and he begrudgingly realizes that if he doesn’t want to be even more stressed—and strain the relationship between you and him—he won’t address it any more than he already has.

You also feel some semblance of guilt over it being revealed. You’ve added even more weight to Five’s mind by having him _unnecessarily_ worry over you. It’s yet another reason why you didn’t want the whole damn thing brought up.

Everybody was so much _happier_ when they didn’t know.

But what about Vanya? Had she been happy keeping it all to herself, never even discussing it with you once after it happened?

Pain pulsates beneath your lungs. Pain wrapped up in guilt.

You miss Vanya. You miss her so much.

When bedtime rolls around and the two of you have a more solid direction of where to take your next step, you say to Five, “I don’t want to go to the barracks and sleep there.”

“I wouldn’t either.” Five puts the cleaned and dried dishes away. “You can wear one of my pajamas and sleep in the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“But…it’s so little. Are you sure you’ll be comfortable?”

“Eight. When have I ever cared about comfort?”

“I mean, you _should.”_

“Just—take the damn bed, alright?”

You smile. “Alright.”

-

The next morning, you quickly duck out the door just when you hear Five yell, _“Eight?_ Did you use my goddamn _toothbrush?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=2Guuq0JuTCm_Lt7OToPF9Q)   
>  [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)
> 
> I posted two chapters in one day because it's been so long since I last updated. Unfortunately, I'm very busy with work, school, and internship stuff, so another update won't come as quickly as I want.
> 
> The dinner Eight made is chilghetti. Is it unhealthy? Yeah. Is it a decent meal if you're on a budget and tastes not too bad? Yeah. Literally, just pop a can of chili on the stove (we prefer Nalley's Original), heat it up, make some spaghetti pasta (or any pasta will do), then dish it up like you would a regular pasta dish. Adding some hot sauce to the chili also makes it good, and don't forget to pile on some cheddar cheese.


	38. imagine me and you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Happy Together"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0n0XAmYCMWlzj3W9VdMejw?si=kCRRnOC8Se2oQi-vwE5p8A)

Dublin, Ireland. 1926.

“I think history really glosses over how much things stink,” you say to Cha-Cha.

“History stinks in general, smell or not.”

Two women in strange suits garner looks, but it’s late and chilly enough that not too many people are out on the streets. You carry the briefcase in one hand and a pistol in the other.

“I hate Dublin,” Cha-Cha says.

“Is that meant to be racist? Or because the people here can be racist?”

“No. I just hate the city. It’s not all everyone has hyped it up to be.”

“Then what’s your favorite city?”

You turn down the street, following the address you were given. You spot the upcoming alley on your left.

“Huh. Corsica, maybe?”

“That’s an island. Not a city.”

“Don’t need a city to enjoy it.”

“Yeah, but the question I asked you was your favorite _city,_ Cha-Cha.”

“Why are you making such a damn big deal out of this? Trying to distract yourself from what you’re going to do?”

She gestures to the alleyway.

“Maybe,” you sigh. “But still. Think on the question. It’s okay if you say that your favorite city is always the one where I’m with you.”

“Shut up.”

You stop at the alley entrance. In the dim light of Dublin, a couple doesn’t notice you and your partner approach, footsteps quiet on the damp concrete. Too preoccupied mid-tryst, they only realize that someone stands near them when the soft _click_ of your gun breaks the foggy silence.

The girl goes to scream, but a bullet beats her to it. The man receives a matching headshot not a second later.

Ringing fills your ears, somewhere between silence and song.

You don’t think about it.

Cha-Cha watches you take an even breath. The smell of oil and cooking food wafts through the air. You tuck the gun in your waistline. The couple’s blood mingles together on the ground, their bodies still intertwined like characters from a forgotten John Donne poem.

“No hesitation,” Cha-Cha comments. “Not bad. You could have been quicker, though. Shot them at more of a distance.”

“I didn’t want to miss and draw more of a scene.”

You notice that the woman wears a pretty emerald green dress. You like the color.

Staring at the couple that you just put bullets in doesn’t bother you like it should. You don’t feel entirely detached or dissociative, but neither do you become overwhelmed with guilt and sickness at the sight of them. They fit into the box without struggle, and thoughts of Vanya and Allison, Klaus and Ben, Diego and Luther, Mom and Pogo, Patch, and Five cover them up like a heavy blanket, secure and undisturbed. The neat placement is a sharp contrast from the disarray in the rest of your mind.

This will be over soon enough. You just have to trust Five, which is not a hard thing to do.

Turning from the couple, you and Cha-Cha begin to walk away.

“You hungry?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

-

Oskaloosa, Iowa. 1989.

You swirl a limp fry in a thick puddle of ketchup. In the background, kids play in the McDonald’s cesspool plastic playground. Heavy clumps of snow fall outside, flakes illuminated by the restaurant’s lampposts. Cha-Cha clicks her tongue at them for the sixth time, then takes a dour bite of her burger.

“Want to get McFlurries after this?” you ask, the snow reminding you of the treat.

“They’re not invented yet.”

“Shit. That’s disappointing.” You move to your chicken nuggets. “So, do you celebrate Christmas? It’s getting close here.”

“I don’t celebrate anything. Not worth my time or patience.”

“How depressing.”

“Like I care about your opinion on how I spend my free time—as if I’ve even had free time since I started working at the Commission.”

You think about the son she hasn’t once brought up again when you glance back at the children scrabbling around in the plastic tubes and nylon ropes. They do it without care or concern, laughing, screeching, red-cheeked and wild-haired. You and your family had a similar contraption for training when you were young. It was much more dangerous, of course, and filled with less laughing and more crying.

Briefly but not for the first time, you consider who you would be if you were not part of the Umbrella Academy. Not part of the pain it entailed, the heartache, all stemming from your family and the ways you’ve failed them.

Then again, you don’t think you truly want to imagine a life without that same family.

“Ben,” you had said in the midst of the contraption with your siblings scrambling past, Luther shouting commands while Dad’s cold countdown echoed in the metal tube Ben gave up in. His knobby knees were scraped, the hems of his culottes darkened with blood. “Ben, come on. Come on! We need to make it out together!”

“I…can’t,” he whimpered back. Ben hunched in on himself. “I—it’s too _hard—”_

He held his palms up to you. They had a worse fate than his knees. Uh oh. He must not have escaped the sharp gravel pit like the rest of you. You’d need to watch out for that in the future. In the distance, Luther shouted, “Number Six! Number Eight! Keep up!”

“Right behind you, Number One!” you responded, light rising off your skin with the raise of your voice.

You got back down on all fours. “Get on, Ben! Get on my back! Hurry!”

_“Eightie—”_

You had little words of encouragement. You simply repeated his name. “Ben!”

Light cut through the darkness of the tube, unmatched to the harsh light ahead, light that promised pain for your family. Pain for you _because_ of their pain.

He clambered on, sobs uncontrolled. You took off as best you can. Your skin skidded across the metal surface, but it could not break what was unbroken. Ben clung to your neck and shoulders, ankles crossed around each other to keep him anchored to your back.

Once you made it past the tunnel, you burst through into the next obstacle. Your siblings were already two ahead. Five was three, much to Luther’s frustration.

“Fail to catch up with your team, Number Eight and Number Six, and you risk putting everyone through the course again!” Dad informed like a whip. You knew. You knew.

“Hang—on,” you hissed to Ben as you leaped onto a rope. Your strength almost couldn’t make up for the combined weight, but you gritted your teeth, light amplifying, and reached for another, and another, continuing until you trailed at the back of Klaus’ heels. Ben remained on your back not because he was incapable (because you believed in him, you _always believed in all of them),_ but because you didn’t want him to risk further injuring himself.

You didn’t understand back then what it meant to love your family. You didn’t understand why it hurt so much to see them hurt, physically and emotionally—it just did.

Now you do.

And this time, you’ve hurt them. How do you fix the pain you’ve inflicted yourself? Pain you always tried so hard to alleviate them from? Protect them from?

Ben still suffered so much because of you. Vanya. Five. Everyone.

How do you fix it? How?

“Let’s go,” Cha-Cha says to you, downing the rest of her drink until it rattles with only ice and air. “He should be leaving his office now.”

You eat a few more meager, oversalted fries, which leave a filmy coating on the roof of your mouth, and head out into the haunting pallor of the McDonald’s sign that sits across the street from the target’s place of business.

Later, you wash your own bloodied palms in the sink from a man you stabbed four times in the chest. You made it look like he’d been mugged outside his own accounting firm. He probably would have told you that he had a family if he had seen you approach in the snowy night. It wouldn’t have made a difference. You left him to die slumped next to his 1961 station wagon.

Cha-Cha turns on the television, though you know she does it just for the noise. Although she doesn’t care for programs, she hates the silence more.

You understand the sentiment.

Once you finish washing, you turn the sink off and dry your hands, staring at yourself in the mirror.

You had still been a child when the attempt happened. Yet, you continued to hide it away like a child, careless of what it did to Vanya and Ben throughout the years. And you ran from it like a child, ran away to avoid that pain instead of considering the pain of those you love.

The reflection in the mirror soundlessly chuckles back at you and shakes her head. You had _seriously_ thought yourself so well-adjusted? So mature? The one in the family who had your head on straightest?

Cha-Cha lounges on the dismal twin bed. You kick your shoes off, drape your blazer on a hanger, and loosen your tie before you recline on your own. Outside, the storm persists.

The two of you don’t speak for some time. Cha-Cha soon shuts the lamp off that sits between your beds, leaving the room dark except for the blare of the tv screen. Audience laughter from a rerun of _Night Court_ chatters in discord.

Staring at the screen, too transfixed (too afraid) to let your gaze go anywhere else, you say aloud, “I tried to commit suicide.”

It sounds strange to speak, to utter your action. Perhaps stranger than the first time you did it, betrayed and spiteful and scared in the passenger seat while Five gripped the wheel so tight that his knuckles whitened. Is it because you have so little inside your chest? Because it is now a fact and no longer a secret?

“Yeah,” Cha-Cha eventually answers, “you did.”

“I don’t know how to fix it. I never did.”

“So you left it alone this whole time. You wanted to forget you ever needed fixing in the first place.”

“Mm.”

“Well. You ain’t gonna fix shit.” Cha-Cha doesn’t move to look at you. She stares at the television screen as well, and you can barely make out her silhouette from the corner of your eye. “What’s done is done.”

“Then what?”

She grunts. “No idea. I’m no therapist.”

“And as my partner?”

That gets a sigh from her, but it follows with a reply. “It’s not about fixing. Bodies…the minds we have, they don’t work like that. Can’t just tighten a screw or repaint a scratch in the wood. They get broken, but they don’t get fixed from those breaks.”

“If I can’t fix…” You swallow, unable to form the right words.

“Like I said,” Cha-Cha says tersely. “Fixing doesn’t work. Find a different word.”

You remain silent for a minute or two. Considering.

“Heal,” you whisper. The word means more than for yourself and this splintered, broken-hinged box that weighs in your chest.

“It happened. You put a rope around your neck and tried to off yourself, but you couldn’t. Your sis found you, and your dead brother watched you do it.”

The plain statement from Cha-Cha doesn’t do shit for the box.

You don’t think it was meant to. The box cannot be fixed.

She goes on. “Once you get it in your head that what you did is what you did, then you can start figuring out where to go, where to heal. How to heal, I guess. Who to heal with.”

Just above a whisper, vision blurred, you ask, “And how can I heal them?”

“By helping yourself, obviously,” she snorts. Cha-Cha pulls the blankets over her and turns on her side, facing away from you. “Letting them help you, too.”

Cha-Cha adds, “Seems like you’re _shit_ at it though.”

Her last remark gets a small laugh from you. The laugh track swells again, followed by applause.

Yeah. You are.

-

Delft, Netherlands. 2005.

“Shit,” you mutter while Cha-Cha groans, “God!”

The two of you both say, “I _hate_ vampires.”

You rip a wicked wooden stake from a corpse that turns to ash. Cha-Cha retrieves her half-empty bottle of holy water, which rolls back and forth on the floor in a listless rhythm.

“Did you get bit?” you ask.

“No. You?”

“Nah. I mean, I got bit. Didn’t do anything though.”

“Right. Of fucking course. You’re so irritating.”

“Thank you.”

Cha-Cha wipes her forehead with the back of a hand, finally able to catch her breath. “That light of yours did come in handy, though.”

“It did, didn’t it? I used the same trick on a few with the Umbrella Academy. They just—don’t— _go down.”_

“Yeah, and the intel headquarters sent us were off,” Cha-Cha spits. “There were supposed to be four, not _ten.”_

“They must’ve known we’d be after them from other agents’ failures. Called a few friends.”

“Well—they messed up my back, that’s for sure.” Cha-Cha rolls her shoulders and lets out a stifled, pained moan.

“You got thrown into that wall pretty hard.”

“And where were you to _catch_ me?”

“Hey, hey, you know what it’s like to slam into me. It’s just like hitting a wall, only with average teenage boobs.”

Once the two of you gather the last of your weaponry, leaving the vampires to crumble, you slip an arm around Cha-Cha to support her. “You know what really pisses me off?” you say to distract her from the pain.

“What?”

“These vampires dressed fucking ugly.”

“Ugh. They _did._ You’d think immortality would give you a sense of fashion. Guess not.”

“My brother Klaus said that he fought a vampire chimpanzee in Hollywood once.”

“That sounds about right with your family.”

And the two of you continue to gripe until you get to a pharmacy where Cha-Cha can snag some pain killers.

-

Edmonton, Alberta. 1973.

You stagger upright, shaking off the sensation of someone’s neck snapping within your grasp.

The violence makes you think of Five. You miss him. You hope he’s okay. You hope he knows that you’re okay, too.

Cha-Cha peers at the dark Saskatchewan River while she waits for you to rejoin her. When you stop beside her, leaning against the path’s railing that keeps people from the waters beyond, she doesn’t look at you.

Despite the warmer season, a puff of air escapes past her lips. “Hey,” she says, low and aggravated, “I got a question for you.”

“Mm?”

“You think this whole thing will work? Overthrowing the Commission?”

“I do.”

“You put too much trust in Five.”

“Oh, likely. But I’m out here with you in the field. I’m sure the Handler agreed to hire me as an assassin to help keep a rein on him. I’m isolated for long periods of time, and he’s surrounded by enemies nonstop. But I trust him. We work together even when we’re not together. It will work. It has to.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then it doesn’t, and I’ll do anything to keep my family safe nonetheless.”

“Including dying for them.”

You hum. “It’s such an odd concept, dying. But yeah. I would. As much as I’m afraid of it, as much as I’ve wanted it, I would.”

“Do you want to die for them? Or die for yourself?”

You don’t bother to lie. Cha-Cha will know if you do, which will only spark her ire. And because she prompted the conversation in the first place, you don’t want to risk ending it on a sour note and set her back.

“I’m not sure. It’s…hard to differentiate the longer I force myself to think about what happened and why I did it.”

City lights shimmer off the inky water’s surface. A train bellows in the distance. You lace your fingers together.

“I’d die for them without hesitation, without fear of pain. But I don’t think it’s healthy to want to do it so willingly.”

“So. You still have an ideation.”

“Maybe not as straightforward as it once was. I don’t feel as…in the dark. Swallowed up by silence and pain. But it’s there, yeah. Just in a different way.”

Cha-Cha lets out another long breath. Her words come out stiffly, like they’ve been affected by the cold as well. “It’s tough as balls to want to live for the people you love rather than die for them.”

She starts to walk away, and you trail alongside her.

You think she speaks from experience.

-

Taichung City, Taiwan. 1992.

The rush of the pneumatic tube stops you from passing a convenience store without a second glance. Pausing, you check to make sure nobody is nearby before you slide the chamber open and grab the canister. You dump the scrolled note into your hand and send the canister back to headquarters.

You should wait to meet back up with Cha-Cha at your living arrangements, _then_ see what the contents of the message are. Except, part of you buzzes with anticipation. You’re typically with your partner whenever you get new assignments, so to receive one by yourself either means it’s a secret message from Five, information pertaining to Cha-Cha, or…

Hurriedly, you unfurl the scrolled message and devour each word that strings together to read:

_Return to headquarters for the annual Temps Commission gala._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=mGnXrW9kQqqKFWbXKnneSw)   
>  [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)


	39. picture book, of people with each other, to prove they love each other long ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Picture Book"](https://open.spotify.com/track/5HOQNAXcPSwV7Gt8AV8qiP?si=3a48Sr8qSVy5lFYqvKHjQA)

The Hargreeves family has never been good at waiting.

The overnight drive to the supposed cabin-slash-safehouse is, true to old Hargreeves’ taste, more of a mini-mansion _resembling_ a cabin. And, of course, it’s full of traps and surveillance cameras and the overall air of Dad’s voice cutting, “You’re not welcome here, my failure of a family.”

Pogo navigates through the head-choppers, electrocuters, and poison dart whistlers with a deftness most of them haven’t seen in years. Even when they lived in the last dredges of childhood, Pogo didn’t move like he used to. His purpose, however, is clear, and so he acts in accordance to it without faltering.

When they arrive in the cabin’s interior, Klaus removes his unneeded sunglasses and lets out a low whistle. “God,” he declares, “I wish Dad had followed his true dreams of decorating houses for other rich billionaires that _may_ or _may not_ hunt people for sport.”

“It’s not as if Dad didn’t already have a shrine to his ego,” Diego mutters. Then, loudly, he says, “I get the biggest room! Dibs! The rest of you assholes can suck it!”

Klaus, in turn, books it up the stairs. Diego curses and chases after him while Mom, in her ever-dulcet tone, calls, “Boys, be careful!”

“It’s not as if we don’t have an entire organization of _assassins_ on our trail or anything,” Luther says with the shake of his head.

“I think you might just be jealous that you didn’t run after them as well,” Allison says, smirking. From Luther’s sputters, she gets her answer.

They trail in the wake of Diego and Klaus’ bickering on the second floor. Really, it’s good for them to keep moving. Nobody wants to talk about what happened—nobody _can_ talk about what happened, really—but it’s difficult for them all to focus on things other than exactly _that._

As such, they try to make themselves busy.

Luther goes through the cabin for discovery purposes. He tells himself he doesn’t do it to try and find proof that Dad did care about him while he was isolated and transformed on the moon, that it _meant_ something this entire time.

He misses you and your reassuring presence. To think of a world where, where you don’t…where you aren’t _here…_

Has he ever told you that he loves you?

Maybe, but the sinking feeling in Luther’s stomach (that actually hasn’t stopped plummeting since Vanya unleashed the truth on them in the rain-soaked field) informs him that if he ever has, he definitely hasn’t done it enough if it warrants him doubting that he ever did it at all. But you? He knows you’ve told him that you love him. You’ve _shown_ him that you love him countless times.

Luther should have left with you and Vanya when you asked him to. But he stayed. At seventeen, he just _couldn’t_ understand why you didn’t want to stay either. Why didn’t you want to protect the world anymore? Save lives? Do good? Why did you just—want to run? Give up?

He doesn’t remember much of the day you left with Vanya in tow, suitcase in your hand and a backpack over your shoulder. But he remembers the pleading in your eyes, followed by the abrupt shift to shock and grief and betrayal—and then nothing much at all.

“Just get out of here,” Luther spat when he had nothing left to say, insides shredded from the sight of you, _you,_ leaving him. “It’s not like you’ve done any good since Five left anyway.”

But he, he didn’t mean it. He just wanted to hurt you, and since you were so untouchable, the best he could get at was cutting you with his words. If he had known, if he had _known_ what you tried to do after Ben—he would have—should have—

What?

Never said it in the first place. Went with you. _Lived._

And now, they might not have much more time to live at all.

So, Luther imagines a world where he walked out of Dad’s house with you and Vanya in the body he once had. He knows it’s fanciful and distracts him from the horror of you wanting to make yourself disappear, but at the moment, he does it to spare himself from the despair of all he had done to you and all he never did for you. And in that world, he makes it up. You forgive him, too.

Well. You’ve forgiven him in this world as well, though Luther can’t imagine why. Except, he acknowledges, it’s you. It’s always been you.

-

In another room that is decidedly smaller than the one Diego strong-armed Klaus out of to snag for him and his _lover,_ Klaus rifles through the drawers, shelves, and the bureau. There’s not much that is worth anything in his room, he finds, but he swipes a couple of fancy fountain pens and saunters back out into the hallway.

Ben drifts beside him, but his brother doesn’t say anything. Klaus hums to himself as he stops and regards some portrait of Dad hanging in the hall. Severe and cold as always, giving off the aura of disappointment and superiority.

Still humming, Klaus takes out a fountain pen and uncaps it. The asshole already has a monocle and mustache in the painting, so Klaus gives the pen a few shakes and scribbles a unibrow right on Dad’s stupid forehead. His humming becomes discordant as he improves an otherwise boring piece.

On the last line, the tip of the fountain pen pierces the canvas. Klaus resists the urge to drag it right through the portrait, all the way down to the bottom of the frame.

He recaps the pen and admires his work, but his chaotic smirk slips too soon.

“I really am a shit brother, aren’t I, Benny?”

Ben steps beside Klaus.

“You’re not. I…can’t say it like Eightie would, but you’re not.”

The mention of your name makes Klaus want to reach inside his chest and clutch his heart to stimy the ache.

“Come on,” Ben says. “Let’s go deface other precious things that belonged to Dad. Use your street smarts.”

Klaus can’t say it, but he wants to tell Ben that he thinks he’s a good brother, too. A better brother than he could ever be.

It’s cruel fate to have the worst brother alive and the best brother dead. Klaus keeps the thought to himself as well.

-

Out in the chilly night, Diego and Patch check the perimeters of the cabin to ensure that the family is as safe as it can be in these unsafe circumstances. But in all reality, they do it to be alone, to be relieved of the unspoken tensions and confessions that mingle with the old coldness of Hargreeves’ looming presence.

One thing Diego appreciates about Patch is her ability to sense when to talk and when to be quiet. He’s never been good at it. The quiet makes Diego uncomfortable even when he should let it sink into him.

Which is why he finds himself saying, “I’m surprised you’ve stuck around this long, Eudora.”

Patch stiffens beside him. He winces. _Crap._ Wrong thing to say. He always speaks before he figures out what’s the right thing, and it’s screwed him over his entire life. It screwed their relationship over the first time around.

“Where else would I go, Diego?” Patch quietly asks back.

He just shrugs and doesn’t answer. Why did he bring up the _one_ thing that he should have stayed away from? Patch left her _entire career_ behind for them—why wouldn’t she stay?

“Besides,” she goes on, and when she glances at him, she wears a soft smile that’s barely visible in the faraway cabin light, “it’s obvious that you Hargreeves can make pretty weird plans when it’s just your heads put together. Without Eight to do damage control, who knows what the rest of you will get up to.”

Diego tips his head back. The black silhouettes of pine trees shroud some bright pinpoints of stars that he’s never been able to see in the city. “Yeah,” he mutters. “She’s always…she’s the good one.”

Patch sighs. “I’d ask if you want to talk about it—about her—but I know you’ll just say that you don’t. Which isn’t healthy. This family…none of you can really talk about anything, can you?”

“It’s dangerous,” Diego admits after several moments.

“How so?”

Hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, Diego stops and turns to Patch. Her eyes are dark and unguarded, inviting forth parts of him that make his stomach clench and words falter. Diego can feel in his mouth that if he speaks, they’ll come out stuttering, and he’s not sure he can take it along with everything else that’s happened.

The lack of a response doesn’t upset Patch, but she fixes him with her gaze and says, “You don’t have to try and untangle everything all at once, with your family or by yourself. But if we’re going to be together again, you _need_ to talk to me, Diego. In some way. Alright?”

Patch slips her arms around Diego’s waist.

Smirking, he says, “You know, someone could catch us off-guard like this, Eudora. Don’t get distracted now.”

“Oh?” she challenges. “So, you’re okay if I just…” Patch begins to remove herself, but Diego holds her to him to make escape impossible.

With her close to him, she releases the tightness in Diego’s chest, the uncertainty.

“I should have…been there for her,” he whispers. A laugh comes from him, but it sounds more like a choke. “I was an asshole as a kid. Still an asshole, I guess.”

“You were a _kid,_ Diego, that’s all,” Patch says, leaning back to peer at him. “You were all just children.”

“Dad would disagree.”

“Yeah, well, your dad was evil, so his opinion doesn’t count.”

“And now?”

“Now, I don’t think you should be as hard on yourself as you are. I—get it how it can be easy to reflect on all the things you didn’t do right, but Diego, look at me. Can you honestly say that you’ve done _nothing_ right?”

“That’s subjective—”

“I don’t care. You’ve always been with Eight. And…she’s always been with you. That _has_ to count for something. You can’t tell me that you’ve never made her happy _once_ in her life.”

“It doesn’t _matter_ if I w-w-was…” Diego cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale.

Patch’s arms tighten. “It does matter,” she says. “It does.”

Diego, not knowing what else to do in wake of the truth to Patch’s words, rests his cheek on top of her head. They stand in the dark, and for once, he allows the silence to be.

-

Showered and in their pajamas, Allison and Vanya sit on a dusty but firm bed together. Allison snatches a pretzel from a bag, which sits amidst other snacks they grabbed at a gas station.

“Remember when I’d come to visit, and you, me, and Eightie would stay up all night watching old movies and eating junk?” Allison says through the pretzel.

Vanya takes a few gummy worms. “Yeah. You always swore that you had to watch your figure, but Eight still made waffles and crap the next morning anyway.”

Allison laughs. “She did it just to spite me.”

Her smile fades. Vanya picks at the remaining gummy worms in her palm but doesn’t eat them. The sisters look away from each other for several seconds, unsure what to say or where to begin. Eventually, Allison utters, “We’re…not as good as I thought we’d be without her. This communicating stuff. I feel like an ass.”

With a small exhale, Vanya slips her hand over Allison’s and offers a smile. “Don’t be hard on yourself. Eight’s always been good at helping us talk to each other, but she’s one of the worst when it comes to opening up about herself. What do you think I’ve been banging my head against for the past fifteen years? So…don’t compare yourself.”

Allison purses her lips. “What’re we going to do about her, Vanya? About…that.”

“I honestly don’t know.” Vanya lies down on the bed and shovels a few more gummy worms into her mouth. “I haven’t really known this entire time. I love Eightie, I really do, but—god, she can be so frustrating sometimes.”

That gets a snort from Allison. “Wait, Vanya, you’re _actually_ saying something bad about Eight?”

“It’s not bad,” she defends. “It’s—true. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

Breathing a laugh, Allison settles beside Vanya and stares up at the ceiling. “Yes, yes I do. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve done what she wants just because she refuses to accept otherwise. It’s not that she _steamrolls,_ exactly, but she just, I don’t know, fucking stands there with that, ‘I believe you can do better than this’ kind of look until I cave. And could I ever turn the tables on her? No! And she never did it in a mean way, either, which made it all worse because this entire family is addicted to praise and affection since Dad never gave it to us as kids.”

Vanya chuckles low in her throat, but it’s fleeting. “Eight’s just been so focused on making sure we’re happy that she figured it’d be better not to tell us about any of her unhappiness since…”

“That could potentially make us unhappy as well.”

The distress in Allison causes her to reach for more pretzels in an attempt to soak up her emotions. A million thoughts run through her mind. Thoughts about you, thoughts about herself as a failure of a sister, thoughts of what ifs and had she done this or that things would be different. But eventually, she settles on, “I’m so sorry you had to live with what happened, Vanya.”

Outside, a breeze stirs against the window.

“It’s alright,” Vanya whispers.

“You’ve taken care of her this entire time. I wish…” Allison breathes a laugh, though it’s flat and humorless. “I wish a lot of things. I wish I could have gotten past my own self-absorption to recognize what you’ve done. Recognize…that Eight was in the place she was. Just, I wish none of us were all stunted in the emotional department.”

Allison’s throat closes. “And I miss Claire, so, so _damn much.”_

Vanya puts her hand on Allison’s arm when she sees a tear roll down her sister’s temple. “I’ve been a terrible sister. A terrible mom. I don’t want to be either.”

“You _haven’t_ been,” Vanya corrects, voice soft but firm. A small smirk flicks at the corner of her mouth. “I mean, were you a terrible sister when we were little? Absolutely. God, I could barely stand you most of the time.” That gets a watery laugh from Allison. “But I love you. I hope you know that. Claire loves you. We _all_ love you.”

Wiping away tears with the back of her hand, Allison says, “Jeez, I had to go and make this about myself again, didn’t I?”

“Nah. I think there’s a difference between being narcissistic and just communicating.”

“…I suppose that’s true.”

Allison adjusts to lie on her side and face Vanya, who follows suit. “I miss Eight,” Vanya mumbles. Allison hums.

“I bet.”

“It’s kind of funny,” says Vanya. “For all of my…for all of _this_ happening, and, and my frustration toward her, it’s because I just want to shake her and say, ‘Can’t you see I love you? Can’t you see that I want to help because you’re my…’” The strength goes out of Vanya’s voice. “‘My sister? My best friend?’”

It’s her turn to flick a tear away. The wind calms outside, but a faint, resonant hum lingers in the air. “God, how can I _not_ miss Eight? We’ve practically been joined at the hip since leaving. And—you don’t have to tell me how that might have been a bit of the problem, the both of us relying on each other so much.”

“I don’t think it’s a problem at all,” Allison says. “You looked after her, and she looked after you. I mean, can the two of you stay cooped up in that apartment for months on end without needing to socialize? Yeah.” Vanya giggles at the truth of the comment. “It never drove you crazy like it would have for me. But, like, I wouldn’t call what you have _co-dependency.”_

Allison rolls her shoulders and breathes through her nose. “Honestly, I think all of us were a bit jealous of what the two of you had. I know I was.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! You got to hog all of Eight! And she got to hog all of you.”

They share a laugh. “But really,” Allison says, leveling Vanya with a sincere gaze, “I want you to know that whatever happens with us, with Eight, with—everything, I love you too. I haven’t said that enough.”

Vanya smiles. “Thanks.”

The gummy worm bag rustles as Vanya reaches for some more. Out of the two she pulls, she gives Allison the red and blue one while she takes the orange and green. “Hey. Once this is all over, can we go back to the beach again? I think I need a vacation.”

“Oh, girl. Definitely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=_CS0-NzAR7WrtIUZ1gVQoA)   
>  [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)
> 
> Just a short interlude chapter to check in on the Hargreeves family.


	40. they're trying to catch you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Run Boy Run"](https://open.spotify.com/track/0boS4e6uXwp3zAvz1mLxZS?si=AJoOQCM3Sw-Pn8CH4ElBkA)

“AJ! Don’t you look handsome!”

The Handler opens up her cigarette case and slips one out. She tucks it in her mouth and offers one to Carmichael with a pleasant smile. He sees right through it, but of course, they play the game they’ve always played.

He takes a cigarette and allows her to light it for him.

“As do you,” he returns. “Shall you save me a dance at the celebration?”

“When have I not?”

“And I suppose you haven’t come to take me up on it early…and in my office.”

She lightly laughs. “Ah, no. Very astute.”

“So, what sordid tidbits do you have that warrant a visit here?” AJ leans against his desk with his human-made body, but the Handler can see that tiny, stupid goldfish swimming around listlessly in his bowl head. It takes everything in her not to sneer at the sight of her rival.

“I’ve received word that the Hargreeves family has moved Vanya Hargreeves to a protected cabin a couple hours outside of city limits. I’m certain they did it thinking they’d be safer and allow them more time to regather after our…scuffles with them.”

“Scuffles?” AJ scoffs. He takes a derisive puff of his cigarette through the ventilator at the base of the fish bowl. “Is that what you’d like to call the disaster of your _repeated_ failed missions?”

The Handler’s smile cracks, but she maintains it through sheer force of will. _This_ fish-lipped ass-kisser thinks he can talk like that? But, she supposes, he’s been talking like this the entire time, just _relishing_ in the mishaps that occurred to make himself look better for the board.

Well, the Handler thinks, he’s in for a nice surprise. She is _not_ going anywhere. While he, on the other hand, has stirred up some discontent among the employees. Discontent she, _of course,_ vehemently denies instigating when any moment arose.

“Anyhow,” she continues, “we’ve tracked their location.”

“Mm. So. What shall we do about it then?” Carmichael taps his cigarette against the ash tray on the desk. “I say we send some agents to set off the apocalypse now. With Five and Eight away, they family won’t be strong enough to fight against both our organization and the time bomb in their own sister. If we do it, those two stunted teens will be blindsided.”

“And once they’re…not blindsided?” the Handler poses. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but both of them are particularly feral. Five doesn’t bother to try and hide it, but Eight has a viciousness to her that she covers well until she strikes.” Grinning, she adds, “If you’re not careful, AJ, she might just—”

The Handler snaps her teeth together to mimic eating.

Carmichael pretends not to be disturbed by the notion. “We shall deal with them once everything is all said and done. Their wills shall be broken, and with no family to protect, we’ll take advantage of their vulnerability.”

“Shall they be broken? Or vengeful?”

“Ah. You disagree.”

She doesn’t correct him. “Let them have a wonderful time at the gala. Let everybody else party, too. If we suddenly reroute a bulk of our forces to trigger the apocalypse, then it will only alert Five and Eight. Then they’ll try to intervene, go on a murdering spree, find a way back to their family, etcetera, etcetera, disastrous results for us, and suddenly we’re unemployed and-or dead.” The Handler eyes Carmichael like he’s suddenly cute. “I’m surprised you didn’t consider that possibility. Though, I suppose we do have differing perspectives.”

If it’s one thing Carmichael has at least mastered, it’s his fish glare.

His tail flicks sharply in the water.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten that you failed to see how dangerously loyal Five was to his family before he went rogue. Eight is even more loyal—which is why _I_ wanted to get rid of her in the first place, not add her to your little ornamental collection. If they still have a family at all to go back to, it will give them an advantage. Incentive.”

Carmichael snorts. “And I can smell that _Five_ is up to something, too.”

The Handler waves a dismissive hand. “Five is always up to something.”

“As I’m sure you’ve now realized.”

Her eyes glint with murder, and she wants to show him just how fragile his glass head is that protects him from the rest of the world. From her.

But she keeps her fantasies in her head for now. “Ha. Let him connive. It will be futile in the end. And besides, fish can’t smell, can they? Leave the hunting to me, little guy.”

Carmichael scoffs and swims the perimeter of his bowl once. “Well, I suppose we will have to take each of our own plans to the board once the gala is over.” His body leans forward a fraction, which causes the Handler’s gaze to burn brightly. Her smile transitions from saccharine and false to the grin of a true predator. “Then we shall see just _who_ deserves the position that they’re in.”

“Agreed. I’ll see you on the dance floor, AJ.”

-

“Pogo?”

“Yes, Master Luther?”

“What is this?”

Luther holds up loose schematics of another spaceship contraption. He found them in what he assumed was Dad’s secondary office. The designs are similar to the spaceship that took him to the moon, but many aspects are more streamlined and make room for several people.

And there are…prison cells?

“This isn’t the one I was shot off in,” Luther goes on when he sees Pogo’s face fall, burdened by the weight from all of Reginald Hargreeves’ secrets.

Pogo shuffles forward, cane tapping against the floor. When he comes close to Luther, he puts the cane in front of him, one hand on top of the other, and looks up at him with care and regret.

“Your father…has had many plans and machinations beyond the scope of the Umbrella Academy. I promise you that once this apocalypse comes and goes, I shall explain as much as I can to you. But, for now, know that your father’s actions, his…measures…will continue to affect the family even though he has since passed.”

Luther watches Pogo pause, deliberating on his words. “I am sorry that it has to be this way.”

With a sigh, Luther tosses the schematics back on the desk with less care than he would have before everything over the past few days happened. “It’s…alright. I think. Yeah. I get it. Dad always did have his stuff going on that he’d never bother to inform us about.” _Inform me,_ Luther almost says. He catches himself at the last second. “Then when I went to the moon, I lost all contact with the rest of the world anyway. So. I’m familiar with being left out of the loop.”

“It must have been terribly lonely up there,” Pogo sympathizes. “You should not have remained so long by yourself.”

Luther goes to defend Dad’s decision out of instinct, but the words die in his mouth. Instead, he nods once. “Yeah.” With a small laugh, he adds, “Cold, too. Also, the garbageman was terrible.”

Pogo chuckles. “Perhaps it will come as a comfort to you, then, to know that Miss Eight was not far from conspiring to bring you back. I feared—and somewhat looked forward to—the day when she came to me to commandeer a rocket with her at the wheel. Sending letters and photos to you didn’t satisfy her enough.”

“That sounds like Eight,” Luther smiles. “And if you refused, she would have taught herself to fly a rocket anyway.”

Although Luther knew you missed him from the vehemency of your emotions in your letters, it does warm him to be reminded that you wanted him back home.

The tender moment between Pogo and Luther, however, comes to an abrupt halt when Klaus shouts from somewhere within the cabin, “You guys! I found pictures of baby Pogo! Space baby! Space baby Pogo! You gotta come check this out! Now! _Dépêche-toi!”_

If Pogo ever had an abashed expression, it’d be the one Luther currently saw.

He grins. “Uh oh. Pogo, you were a baby once? I never would have guessed.”

“These are incredible times, Master Luther, and full of surprises.”

Klaus was right. Pogo _had_ been cute.

As the family gushes over old black-and-white photos of Pogo in what seems to be a space getup, he’s pressed into reluctantly recounting a similar tale he had told you some time ago, of a time prior to when he had the mind and body he does.

The conversation bleeds into dinnertime, so Pogo sits with them again like he has the past couple nights. It continues to be an odd sensation to him, but a welcome one, nonetheless. This family is messy and loud and argumentative, but there is strong, beautiful love between them in spite of the lives they lived.

Because Mom doesn’t cope well with the sudden change in environment, she’s incapable of making dinner.

“It’s okay,” Diego assures her when he sits her down at the table. “We got this. You don’t have to worry about anything tonight.”

Through the haze of her aging system, Grace’s programming acknowledges the odd and unusual circumstances. But she smiles at Diego and says, “Alright, Diego.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Love you, Mom.”

Patch whips up some food with Diego to assist her. It’s nothing fancy, just some mac n cheese, toast, steamed broccoli that’s healthiness is balanced out by the heap of butter Patch put in it, and juice. Their trip to a grocery store had been quick and harried, which is why Diego complains about how the cheese is going to give him a stomachache later.

She pulls a bottle of Lactaid from a grocery bag and says, “I grabbed it in case of emergency,”

Diego whispers, “You’re so hot.”

Instead of serving everyone dinner, they set it out on the table for everyone to help themselves and pass around. The only person Diego plates a dish for is Mom. As he sets it in front of her, a strange look crosses over her face. Confusion, but not the kind of her normal confusion. Like she has trouble comprehending what this moment it, this moment she’s never truly had before: _being_ with her family, not serving or tending to them.

Over the buzz of conversation at the table, Vanya, who sits on the other side of Mom, leans in and asks, “Are you alright?”

Mom turns her head to Vanya and smiles with such stark lucidity that it takes Vanya’s breath away for a moment.

“I am, sweetie.”

“Good,” Vanya manages. “I’m glad.”

“And I will be even better when Five and Eightie return.”

Klaus, overhearing Mom’s comment, waves his stabbed broccoli around in the air. “I wonder what those two little rascals are up to, having all the fun without us.”

-

The gala is the closest thing to a formal dance you will ever get. You promised yourself that you wouldn’t be all excited about dressing up for it.

You lied to yourself, obviously.

In the hotel you stay at before traveling to headquarters, you examine yourself in the mirror and make sure your lipstick hasn’t smeared on your teeth or around your mouth. You wear a dress you found at a 1960s department store you and Cha-Cha had explored after you killed the assistant manager and made his death look like a suicide.

Cha-Cha doesn’t bother wearing anything fancy. She sticks to her suit, but you don’t fail to notice the new golden tie clip she wears. You swiped if off the assistant manager’s tie when she wasn’t looking and gifted it to her.

Your evening gown can’t compensate for making you look older, but you feel nice in it. It’s a deep emerald color with a sweeping ruched neckline that covers your cleavage but exposes the tops of your shoulders. The gown’s sleeves are short, and the upper half fits snugly to your chest and waist while the bottom poofs out in layers of tule. Pearl clip-on earrings compliment the dress. You decided to keep it safe and stick to black kitten heels for when you had run and fight…or do seriously cool dancing.

While you don’t stick to a true 60’s hairdo for the sake of time and energy, you pull your styled hair back halfway as best you can and secure it with a plain golden hairclip. Black winged eyeliner sweeps across your upper lids with dusts of charcoal-hued eyeshadow. Both top and bottom lashes are coated in mascara.

Cha-Cha picks up the briefcase. “Ready, Miss Debutante?”

“I didn’t go for a debutante look,” you softly correct.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let’s get out of here. It smells like moth balls.”

“Everywhere we stay smells like moth balls.”

“Exactly why I want to _leave.”_

You turn away from the mirror and grab your own small briefcase, as well as the other outfit hanging in the closet. The moment your hand touches the briefcase handle, reality spins and vacuums. You hear the cacophony of a song, and then you stand on the smooth ground of the Commission’s observatory.

Other agents pop into existence, many dressed for the occasion—and some who take the Cha-Cha route.

You hold up the outfit. “Go get the briefcase dropped off. I have to make a delivery.”

“Why should you? That little shit doesn’t care about what he wears.”

“Don’t tell anyone, but he actually does. He likes dressing nice.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. He’s an old man after all.”

The two of you walk out into the cool night, which is full of excitement—and something more. Something that makes your light want to dance across your skin.

There’s a confidence in your kitten-heeled steps.

“I’ll see you there inside?” you ask Cha-Cha.

“See you there.”

You both know better than to share secretive glances.

Splitting off, you head to the apartments. _F. Hargreeves_ gleams in the odd-shining moonlight. You knock, and a moment later, Five opens the door.

He takes in your appearance, gaze lost for a brief second. Then he smirks.

“You look nice. The 60s have always suited you.”

“Thank you.”

“Got my clothes?”

“Of course. What, were you afraid that I’d forget?”

You step into the apartment. “I may or may not have contemplated sending you a reminder via pneumatic tube,” Five says as he closes the door.

“Well, I didn’t. Here.”

You give him the black, neat suit that drapes over its hanger. You also picked out a tie that’s a similar—but not exact—shade of green as your dress. Five runs the tie through his fingers with a hum.

“So, we’re doing a matchy-matchy thing?”

“How else will people recognize that we’re together?”

“Valid point.” Five takes his tie off and moves to his bedroom. “Give me a moment. I’ll be right out.”

You lean against the back of the couch and wait. Time has passed since you’ve been away; a few more documents and notes scatter throughout the apartment, a couple dishes sit in the sink, and a basket on the counter contains apples and bananas.

Any questions or jokes you have for Five disappear from your mind when he steps back into the living room. You grin and straighten. In your low heels, you stand even taller than Five than you do when you wear flat shoes.

“How do I look?” he says, trying to make it sound like he definitely _does not_ care about his appearance.

You close the gap between the two of you and run a hand over the green tie.

“Spectacular,” you whisper.

The boyish hesitation that came with Five’s face when he asked for your opinion dissipates. You love the subtle shift in his demeanor, so you don’t bother telling him where you actually got the suit.

Still. You have to commend yourself for your good eye in the boy’s section at Dillard’s.

With no time left to waste, you link your arm with Five and walk to the illuminated headquarters building in the distance. Soft gravel crunches under your heels, and your dress bounces with each step. Tonight is going to be a good night. You can feel it.

You have Five with you again. That’s why. And soon, you’ll have the rest of your family back as well.

But first, you have to party.

When Five enters the ballroom alone, it teems with employees. He spots the platinum blonde hair of the Handler and Carmichael’s fishbowl head gleaming in the _tacky_ disco light. The gala committee probably had to hang one because fish head cut so much of the budget that they couldn’t afford their typical getup.

“Five!” Dot and Herb call from several feet away. They wave enthusiastically, keeping up their part nicely. Five approaches, and Dot shoves a cup of punch in his hand. He takes a sip and grimaces at the syrupy sweetness of cheap juice mixed together with not enough rum.

“Where’s Eight?” Dot asks with a grin. “I thought she’d be with you! I wanted to say hi to her before the party _really_ started.” She raises her brows for good effect.

“Ah, she’ll be along shortly,” Five replies.

He straightens his tie. Two knives settle securely underneath his socks, and excitement sparks in him at the thought of finally getting to put them to use.

Let the night of revelries begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=IQqbz5K7TaGG2OT_Q1Xg5w)   
>  [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)
> 
> I swear I'll actually be getting to the big stuff at some point. I thought I'd release another little chapter to move things along more. 
> 
> Thanks for being so patient and supportive of this story. 💖


	41. tell her all the little things i’m gonna do on saturday night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Saturday Night"](https://open.spotify.com/track/2Z7FT1lDIAwdAtoQNHNWxB?si=2WaHSakJQ1e7DCYNuHRTgA)

The gala has become Jupiter, drawing everyone with its gravity to allow you to move unobstructed to the records department. You’ve been waiting for the absence of employees who would have nicely but firmly stopped you from dipping your fingers into the record you want because of your lack of clearance. Field agents such as yourself don’t usually get to look at records they themselves haven’t completed or attributed to.

You could have asked Five to look at the record for you instead, but this…well, this is one of your own little things, just like you told Cha-Cha when you first filled out a report. And even though you’d be safer _with_ Five by your side, your simultaneous absences at the gala would raise suspicion.

When you informed him that you wanted to sneak into the records department during the night of the gala, he was reluctant to support the idea at first. But Five has a feeling that your luck together is running out, so you need to act now or get the hell out of the Commission. So it means that tonight, you have to act now for everything.

Five told you about all the areas to avoid and walls to stick to as you make your way down. You can’t jump like him, but you do have a good amount of stealth tactics drilled into you, so you find yourself in the sprawling archives in no time.

You’re only going to be gone for a little bit.

Clutching the note Herb hid for you behind a placid painting only dystopian companies such as the Commission would hang on their walls, you stop in front of the oldest end of the filing cabinets. Heavy, sticky dust blankets the metal surfaces, and a few units have rust stains from constant water damage. Even the lights flicker more than the newer and more well-kept sides do, as if to discourage you from delving into the Commission’s earliest records.

It disturbs you that you _are_ in the ancient pits for this.

You unfold the note again to read the number to double-check, even though you’ve long memorized it.

_43_

Ironic. Ha.

The search doesn’t last long. The file number doesn’t even have letters or sub-dashes to go with it because this— _he—_ was one of the Commission’s earliest alarms when it came to preserving the timeline. It unnerves you that he’s beneath the one hundred mark

You open a drawer on the cabinet labeled 40-50.

Dad’s file, whose tab reads _R. Hargreeves,_ is hefty.

With little time to sift through contents that are meant to take days to go through, you begin skimming for the most important details and facts. What you read makes your stomach slide to your feet, brain going fuzzy yet hyperaware, coldness in your chest.

Reginald Hargreeves. Alien. Inventor of prohibited technology. Arrival on Earth: 1919. D.S. Umbrella Manufacturing Co. Multiple attempts to assassinate. First attempt: 1919. Last attempt: 1940. Extreme threat to the correct timeline. Failure to exterminate on all occasions. Too powerful in intelligence and strength. Planet origin: unknown. Founder of the Umbrella Academy. Potential cause of the birth of forty-three children around the world by women who had not been pregnant the day before. Exact method and reason unknown. Unknown interest on dark side of the moon. DECEASED.

At the end of the file’s documents, you see a typewritten list of the forty-three children born on October 1st, 1989. They all have normal, unmemorable names. Some have supplemental file numbers that can be found elsewhere in the archives, but not every single one.

When you get to the H section, you see your family’s names. Your name. File numbers also accompany your names.

_Damn. Shit. Fuck._

This…this is…it’s…

Okay. Fine. Fine.

You don’t have time to check out the files on yourself, your family, and the other children. _Potential cause of the births—_ no, you don’t have _the time._ You wish you did. You really wish you did. You’re not one to crave information to the point of insanity, but in this case, your teeth grit as you struggle not to bolt to the next listed file, searching mad for more answers, more truths.

You don’t have the time. You know this.

Dad’s file closes. You put it back, shut the metal drawer, and walk to the elevator, kitten heels clacking like they’re the only sound in the world. The rhythmic beating of your quick, steady paces amplifies the resounding impact of the information that has now burned into your brain.

Honestly, you think with a soundless, unsmiling laugh, it makes sense.

You muse on the implications.

Dad is an alien. _Was_ an alien. Who did the autopsy on him then? Did they also know he didn’t have a human anatomy? Or was it all falsified? How did he die if not from a heart attack? Does it matter at all? How long has he been alive if he first came to Earth in 1919? Was he otherwise immortal if he didn’t die by unnatural causes? How could he have been the possible cause of forty-three sudden births of superpowered children? Does that make him your _actual_ Dad? Or simply a creator? If he actually didn’t create any of you, then how did he know to gather you all up? And why? Do you also have extraterrestrial genetics in you?

Luther said Dad talked a lot about preparing for the end of the world. Why did he suspect? Was he aware that it would be Vanya this entire time? No, that doesn’t quite add up. Dad knew of _a_ doomsday event—not the cause of it. He would have done more than suppressed Vanya’s powers had that been the case.

So what killed him? Who? And why?

Dad came from another planet. So why Earth? And what did he want with the dark side of the moon? Did Luther’s mission there actually matter? What was found there? Or what was _put_ there?

The clicking of your heels stops in one of the halls you walked down on your way to the ballroom. You don’t tense, but the only people who are out at this time are, well, people like yourself. Up to no good.

“What you doing sneaking around?” a feminine voice calls after you visibly stop several feet away from her, light and British. She has a causal pose. You’ve kept a pose like that plenty of times in your life. It’s always been to hide your intentions.

Nearing, you see a woman around the same age as your siblings. She sports a disheveled but perfect haircut you only wish you could pull off. Unlike yourself, she dresses like she has no intention of even getting close to the gala and all its partygoers.

She grins at you, sharp and clear. She doesn’t bother to hide the danger it bears. You admire that in her.

“If I answered you, then that’d defeat the purpose of my sneaking,” you reply. The woman chuckles with genuine amusement. You don’t take her as the type to put on that much of a façade past her posture. “But it’s nothing big, I promise. Just about my entire identity, my dad. Family stuff.”

“Sounds big to me.”

“I mean, in a certain way, yeah. To me. But to anybody else? I doubt they’d give a shit.”

“You’re probably right about that. I couldn’t care less.”

You get a little closer to her. “And what are _you_ doing sneaking around?”

“That doesn’t take a big brain to guess. I’m avoiding the gala. It’s stupid anyway.”

She scoffs a little at your appearance. “But apparently, you don’t think it’s stupid at all with the way you’re dressed for it.”

You chuckle at her honesty. “I never get to dress up. I may never get to again. I might as well take the chance while I have it.”

“Mm. Yeah. I get that. Nobody probably likes to ask out a thirty-something in a fourteen-year-old’s body.”

“Hey, hey,” you say with a stern finger. “I look _at least_ sixteen.”

“You tell yourself that to help you feel better?”

“Yes, but most people have the good grace not to point it out.”

She snorts, grinning again. You tilt your head.

“What’s your name?”

After considering whether or not she should answer, she says, “Lila.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Lila.”

“You don’t know that.” She swaggers a few steps, heels grinding against the polished floor just to leave scuff marks. “You don’t know who I am. I could be here to kill you.”

“And are you?”

“Not yet,” Lila replies with a kind of smirk that makes you think of Diego and Klaus and Five—reckless but confident. Aware.

She saunters up alongside you as you continue to walk through the hall. “So, what’s your deal?” Lila questions. She flicks a finger against your exposed arm, then hisses a bit and shakes her hand. “Why’re you all stunted and young, even though you walk like an old lady? I know Five’s deal. Little dude screwed himself over with time travel. But I doubt you did the same.”

“My own powers backfired on me as well, just in a different way.” You have no qualms providing Lila with the information. It’s common knowledge that she may already know. She just wants to hear it from you. “But they saved me, too. I got cocooned as a result, like a stasis reaction. Preserved. Kind of like a jam.”

You spare her the gory details.

Immediately, Lila follows up with, “Have you used the way you look to kill pedos and perverts?”

You smirk at her, which causes Lila’s grin to widen. “Not _always_ to kill, but yeah. It’s a good guise to lure anyone in, really. Pretending to be weaker than the people who want to hurt you and your family.”

“Ugh,” Lila scoffs, _“Your family._ No offense, but they sound like a pain in the ass. Seriously, all I heard for the first few weeks of yours and little Five’s arrival was Hargreeves family this and Hargreeves family that. It was fucking annoying.”

“Oh, they are a giant pain in the ass,” you agree, a laugh in your throat. “Particularly Five.”

Lila’s footsteps make no noise, leaving your heels to disturb the silence alone in the lull of the conversation.

“So why do you put up with him, then. All of them.”

“Love,” you easily reply. “Love so consuming that it sometimes perpetuates and complicates the problems more than they need to be complicated. Love so…fortifying that it solves almost everything else.”

Lila remains quiet for a moment. Then she blows a big, juicy raspberry that echoes in the empty hall. You, thinking the reaction is funny, laugh along. Lila strikes you as the kind of person who has an inherent tendency to not take a strong emotion like love seriously, even when it slaps her in the face. You can think of one or two people you’re close with who act the same way, which is why you’re not offended.

“Whatever,” she says. “I’m gonna go lurk somewhere else ‘cause you’re _way_ more boring than I hoped.”

“I’m sorry for letting you down,” you say.

Lila grins once more. “Better not do it again. I might just kill you for it.”

“Because I’m the most boring Hargreeves out of my whole family, I’m sure I will. But I’m excited for the moment to come. Nobody has managed to kill me yet. Maybe you’ll figure out a way.”

“You’re on, ya weird, little Audrey Hepburn wannabe.”

“All I’m hearing are compliments.”

Exaggeratedly groaning, Lila spins on her heels and stalks off in a different direction, which soon leaves you standing alone at the base of a staircase. You climb up them, and as you reach the top, distant music wafts to your ears.

Why are you excited? Why do you feel young again in spite of the revelations thrust upon you mere minutes ago? Is it because you feel like the actual teenager you never were? Because Allison and you would fantasize about going to prom and homecoming and all the formals you’d never experience? That the closest to a “dance” you ever had was swaying and spinning on the sticky floor of Griddy’s while music on the jukebox played?

You find your way to the ballroom, which is really just one of the report department’s giant rooms that has been cleared of desks and typewriters. Whatever works, you suppose. Do they have a disco ball? You hope so.

As soon as you step through the propped open doors with a smile, your senses are overwhelmed with music and lights and people.

And they _do_ have a disco ball. Amazing.

With more fearlessness than you’re warranted, you mix in with the crowd. Despite how the fate of your family and the world depends on tonight’s outcomes, you _do_ have the intention of partying just a tiny bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Eight's playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78GEuI0U1aW2T2AqEDAVnl?si=F-DyWtN8QZSCtW3OUiQQew)   
>  [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/i-dropped-the-chief)


End file.
